


Blind Ambition

by OpalSkyLoveDivine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Feels, Friendship/Love, Mystery, Physical Disability, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 86,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalSkyLoveDivine/pseuds/OpalSkyLoveDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlockian fiction about how the detective copes with the effects of cortical blindness after a traumatic brain injury and how far Doctor Molly Hooper is willing to go to save him. *Eventual Sherlolly*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

" Hey John, I was wondering if we could manage to all get together later this afternoon...to discuss Sherlock. I've been up all night thinking...and trying to come up with...you know...something. I think maybe…I have."

There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line.

The past couple of weeks have been hard ones for those who cared for the detective. There weren't too many other imagined scenarios much worse than the one he currently found himself in; other than death itself and many could make the argument that the later may have been kinder.

In fact, that was the chief concern at the moment.

How to keep the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes from walking down a road of hopelessness and despair. Or perhaps even more to the point, convincing him that the real world is in fact preferable to that of his Mind Palace…where he still had his sight.

Molly took a deep shuddering breath. "I may have a solution...of sorts."

John reacted finally.

"Yeah, yeah of course...sorry; the girls and I can make it. Should I try ringing up Mrs. Hudson and Greg, then?"

"That would be good...I can call Mycroft. I'll text you with the time. Should we just meet at Baker Street…probably easier on Martha's hip?"

"That's fine, Molly. We'll see you soon, yeah?"

She was able to get Mycroft straight away. He's made himself very accessible since Sherlock's injury.

1:00 at Baker Street -MH

Cheers, see u then. -JW

…..

Mrs. Hudson gave Molly a small smile as she poured her tea; than her own, which was the last cup to be filled among her guests. They gathered in Sherlock's sitting room; although this just seemed to emphasize the absence of the one that they've come to discuss.

Mycroft leaned straight-backed on the arm of Sherlock's chair; hands resting on his trademark umbrella. Molly couldn't help but wonder if he felt uncomfortable sitting in his brother's favorite chair.

Surprisingly sentimental, she mused.

As she regarded the other faces present; all the people Sherlock cared for most in the world. She saw just how exhausted they all looked. She was certain she looked no different.

A sad smile settled on her face. The loyal few, she thought.

Molly cleared her throat before she broke the silence. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know you all have busy schedules." Her gaze rested on Mycroft and his eyes softened by her gentle expression.

"Not at all, Doctor Hooper… I must say, I am curious as to your thoughts regarding my brother's plight."

DI Greg Lestrade shifted a bit in John's old chair. "Yeah, what are you thinking, Molly? Is there something new…medically, I mean," Greg questioned expectantly.

"Um no, nothing like that Greg," Molly whispered.

John sat on the couch next to Mary, with a snoozing Emmalyn Watson snugly sleeping on his chest in her carrier. He drew lazy circles on her back.

Frowning, he probed, "Sherlock's doctors specialize in traumatic brain injuries, don't they?"

Mycroft jumped in.

"Yes, John…his doctors are at the top of their field and experts in cortical blindness; I've made sure of that." Mycroft flashed a brief tight smile before he continued. "This type of blindness due to a TBI is unpredictable. Although the odds of it being permanent are thankfully low, the placement of Sherlock's particular injury is uncommon. Typically there is some sort of improvement by this time. Due to the severity of the blunt trauma…well, it's anyone's guess, at this point."

"I still think his sight will return,' Mary said with a confidence in her voice but uncertainty on her face. "This is Sherlock Bloody Holmes we're talking about. When is he ever predictable?"

There were low chuckles all around.

"We can hope for a miracle," Mrs. Hudson said with wet eyes as she rose to offer a plate of biscuits.

"Hope, yes…wait, no."

Everyone stilled at the strength in Molly's tone. She looked down momentarily and sighed. "We all know the inevitable outcome here. Sherlock's life…as he knew it...could be forever changed. The one thing that drives him…his passion…his work, is now out of reach…quit literally."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed, slowly shaking her head.

"Forgive me Doctor, if I sound a bit like my brother, but are you not simply stating the obvious?" Mycroft remarked, followed by another rather forced grin.

Molly looked down quickly at her hands clasped in front of her. She tilted her head to one side as her lips twisted into a crooked smile.

"Oy, why don't we let her finish, yeah?" Greg piped in.

She looked up at him through her lashes and gave him a quick nod.

"Go ahead, love," Mary said softly, reaching over to give her arm a gentle squeeze.

Molly looked into each face that surrounded her in the sitting room. With a deep breath she set her jaw in determination, before she finally opened her mouth to speak.

"I'll be his eyes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you wonderful people for your response to this. I've tried to do my due diligence regarding the neurosciences and the world of the visually impaired. That being said, however,(disclaimer alert) I am a sighted person and I'm not a doctor or psychologist; so as fascinated as I have become in my research, I'm far from an expert!
> 
> A BIG THANKS to my awesome beta Writingwife83 for all the support and guidance!
> 
> Well...let's get to it, shall we?

Chapter 2

There was a long silence.

John tilted his head to one side with his mouth slightly open and his eyes large. He was the first to speak.

"Molly…." His tone was both imploring and cautionary.

"Wait, please John…let me explain," she raised her hand in protest.

Molly walked over a few steps to the window overlooking Baker Street, briefly glancing down at the afternoon bustle.

_I need to convince them, as well as myself, that I can do this. It's his only chance._

She turned back once again when she gathered the courage to resume her proposal.

"Sherlock and I...work well together. Always have actually. We've known each other for over seven years now and we're rather intuitive with one another…if that makes sense."

Deliberately not making eye contact with anyone person, she continued on.

"I want to offer myself…" Molly squeezed her eyes shut.  _Ugh,no...rephrase that! I'm not a sacrificial lamb!_

"I want to try to be Sherlock's eyesight…to describe, if you will, the crime scenes. I am confident in my ability to do this for him; after all it is a large part of what I do as a pathologist…to observe. I think we all know of his high regard for my skill in my field…"

Molly felt her cheeks starting to flush. She cleared her throat.

Up until this time Molly had her eyes fixed on her own fingers which have been unconsciously rubbing together in front of her. She hesitantly glanced up to gauge her mute audience. She certainly had their attention. All eyes were rather saucer like at this point.

So she persevered.

"I'm also sure that I'd be able work out a sort of flexible schedule with Mike Stamford. We've been really happy with last year's interns and I'm sure I'd be able to groom one of them to fill in for me when Sherlock needs me. As it is right now I've amassed a ridiculous amount of personal days as I'm rarely sick and take no time off…well, for myself. I plan to take a personal leave until we get the hang of it. Obviously Sherlock will need time to adjust; as will I."

Molly's voice was soft but had a determination behind it. Revealing to everyone in the room her resolve and tenacity.

"I know this sounds…well, improbable. But I also know Sherlock. I believe he can do this if he truly put his mind to…to adapting. There is solid scientific evidence to show that in the event of the loss of one of the senses, the others become…heightened and sharper to compensate. I think we all can agree that when it comes to Sherlock's mental abilities…they shouldn't be underestimated."

Molly paused at this point and looked up, right into John's grey eyes. They were filled with tears.

He quickly glanced down and cleared his throat. Mary's hand shot out and held on tightly until he was able to find his voice and even then, it was as loud as a whisper.

"Molly, I know you're desperate to help him…we all feel that way."

John looked up with an intense gaze. She saw a mixture of pain and compassion as his eyebrows shot up, disappearing under his hairline.

"When Sherlock…sees things, when he walks into a room….it's…it's not normal. You know that," he said pointing at Molly briefly before returning his hand to his infant's warm back.

There was another lengthy silence in the room; pregnant with sadness but also with something else…hope. It was this that pushed her forward.

Molly searched John's eyes and understood what his doubts were. But she also knew how important it was for her to succeed. If she were able to get Sherlock to believe that this arrangement could work; well, she was sure it couldn't fail.

"John, let me ask you this…" Her voice was quiet and even, without a trace of tremor. "When it comes to his work…even if there was the slimmest of possibility that he'd be able to achieve the improbable…wouldn't you bet on him to make it happen?"

His brow furrowed as he looked at her, blinking twice. Then his expression slowly morph into one of wonder as he considered her words. A smile spread across his face and he shook his head in what she'd best describe as amusement.

"Yeah, I'd guess my money would be on Sherlock. He's the most stubborn, pigheaded, pain in the arse I know."

Molly's face broke out into a full grin. She gave a nod in agreement and let out a nervous laugh as she felt an enormous weight lift off her shoulders. Her confidence growing by the second, Molly looked around the room to regard the faces of her friends. They were filled with affection, admiration and respect.

The last set of eyes to meet hers was that of the British government and it caused her breath to catch. Mycroft's expression was unreadable as he slowly rose to his full height. He walked over to Molly so that he towered over her; all the while holding her gaze. It felt to Molly like everyone in that room was holding their breath. Her back straightened unconsciously and she managed to maintain their eye contact without wavering in her conviction.

She waited.

He stood there for a moment searching her face and when Mycroft spoke it was low and penetrating.

"You would be willing to do this for him? Do you realize how potentially altering, as well as consuming, this would be to your life? I will not lie to you…Molly (the significance of him using her first name was not lost on her). My brother is normally an abrasive personality, as you know, but in his present condition…I confess that I have some…trepidation regarding his state of mind. I'm concerned for your…emotional fortitude."

He meant well and part of her was touched that he cared. She realized though how little he really knew her. He didn't know how unwavering and determined she could be; especially when it comes to Sherlock. Molly wore a ghost of a smile on her face before she spoke.

"Mycroft, I understand your concern, and I agree that this will be all consuming…at least for a time. I'm not only willing but resolute in my decision. I'm his last hope in getting his life back and I'll do everything in my power to make that happen."

Her eyes glistened in quiet confidence. _There…I've had my say._

Mycroft's eyes followed her as she slowly walked over and sank into Sherlock's chair. He considered this tiny woman as she calmly sipped her tea. It seemed that he has underestimated the strength of one Doctor Molly Hooper…for a second time.  _Perhaps I am slipping._

He walked over to the window and watched as raindrops started tracking paths down the glass. _Though she be but little, she is fierce._ Releasing a rather dramatic sigh, Mycroft turned to face the small pathologist sitting before him.

"Very well, Doctor. You have my full support. I will defer to you as to how to proceed, although I am of the opinion that expediency is probably in order."

...

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

 

**Chapter 3**

 In the end the announcement of Molly's scheme was put off until the detective was once again back at 221B. It proved impossible to have any sort of conversation at hospital due to his nearly permanent residency in his Mind Palace. Even when his parents came to visit all the way from Surrey, Sherlock had barely spared them five minutes before he retreated once again. 

Frustrating as it was for all concerned, they reluctantly understood his struggle.

Sherlock hated being a patient. He was essentially trapped and forced to comply with unnecessary demands; at least unnecessary in his opinion. But the combination of 'blind + patient' proved too much for the detective. He couldn't stomach the dependence, the boredom or the darkness.

Part of him knew that disappearing into his Mind Palace was not the solution. It could be damaging to his chances of recouping what was left of his life. He knew his family and friends were desperate to help him. He just couldn't bring himself to care enough to face the prospect of perpetual darkness.

It was incomprehensible.

The very thought brought so much misery; a life spent in his Mind Palace seemed the obvious choice.

…..

When Mycroft called with the news that Sherlock was finally back home he suggested that she put off her visit for at least a day or two. Apparently all did not go smoothly, due to his aversion to being…'Needy'. This was a whole new reality; one that he railed against at every turn. Needless to say, the relief was felt by all when the transition was complete.

For Sherlock, however, it marked a whole new understanding of life per diem.

All things considered though, it could have been worse. He already lived a life abetted with; let's say some…domestic help. In spite of vehemently denying that she was anyone's housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson had been flat-cleaning, clothes-laundering and afternoon tea-fetching for years now. Sock sorting has never been a skill the detective needed to acquire, so it's safe to say it wouldn't be one he'd be "relearning".

It was the reality of dependency, even in the most basic of tasks that was unbearable.

Even his beloved Baker Street had betrayed him. Familiarity disappeared like a vapor without his eyesight. It was the freedom to do for one's self; to be spontaneous, which was lost. If he wanted to boil water for tea at 3 am he'd be out of luck.

It all proved too much.

Once he tentatively maneuvered himself to the couch he literally turned his back on the world and tuned it out.

That was Monday afternoon.

…..

Molly woke up early Wednesday morning to the sound of Toby's crying for his breakfast. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted at the clock that told her it was way too early.

"Really, Mister?" She sighed as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and onto the cold wood floor.

"Ugh, where are my slippers?"  Frowning, she groped in the darkness before throwing up her hands in frustration. "Oh, forget it!"

Padding out to the kitchen to feed 'the beast', she shrugged and decided she might as well make her coffee and face the day.

 _I wonder if he's awake too._ She was determined to at least see how he'd been fairing today.

Yesterday Mrs. Hudson had nothing whatsoever to report. Other than the usual afternoon tea, Sherlock insisted on being left alone. The only movement that she detected upstairs were presumably trips to the loo.

During his first intrepid crossing she cringed at the sound of a stumbling fall, followed by a string of profanities. All other subsequent trips however, were uneventful.

It was quiet. A bit too quiet for her taste. Extra-long periods of calm, when it came to Sherlock's habits, always made the older lady uneasy.

It was Molly's turn now to check up on the detective.

 _Once more unto the breach…_ She smiled to herself, breathing in a deep cleansing breath before starting her morning bathroom routine.

A couple of minutes later she shrugged on a dark gray jumper and an old pair of worn blue jeans.

_I might as well be comfy._

She ran a comb through her long auburn tresses, opting to leave it down since there were no cadavers to avoid today. After applying a thin veneer of lip gloss she quickly assessed herself in the mirror before traversing into the hall to slip on her shoes. She froze in the middle of putting on her second trainer when her thoughts drifted to Sherlock and her appearance.

He wouldn't be deducing her today. Perhaps she will never again feel his weighty gaze upon her.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she choked out an unexpected sob.

_Oh Sherlock…_

Molly squeezed her eyes shut as thick hot tears rolled down her cheeks and fingers. She sat there until the moment passed, wiping away her tears with her sleeve. She sighed before rising to her feet and put on her newish fall jacket.

She saw it in a store window a little over a month ago; a wool pea coat in a deep burnt orange color. It was perfect for the season and looked surprisingly well with her creamy skin tone.

She usually bought her clothes from a variety of thrift and consignment shops scattered around town but she splurged this time since it had been well over five years since she bought herself a new coat. Molly even picked out a multi-colored circle scarf that completed the autumn palette perfectly.

Grabbing her leather tote and keys, she glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror and saw nothing but sadness etched on her face.

"Chin up, Hooper", she heard herself say to an empty flat; with no one but her cat to hear.

Opening her front door, she stepped out into the crisp morning London air.

…..

Molly dropped by St. Bart's to make final arrangements before her leave. She then stopped to pick up some groceries at the shops. By the time she arrived at 221B it was a little after nine. There was a strong possibility that Sherlock would still be asleep. Typically, the hours he kept were erratic at best, but this new normal? It was anyone's guess.

Armed with the detective's favorite biscuits, she bravely marched up to the second floor flat to the great unknown.

 _Tea…I'll make tea._ _Everything looks a bit more hopeful after morning tea._ Molly cajoled herself with a little positive thinking as her hand reached out and turned the handle. It opened to reveal a very dim and very silent flat of rooms.

"Sherlock?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have left kudos!...would love to hear what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Thank you Writingwife83...you're wonderful!*
> 
> So dear readers, we have our first real encounter with Sherlock.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

** Chapter 4 **

Molly's eyes struggled to adjust to the difference in light as she quietly closed the door behind her. It was a rare sunny autumn morning for London's usually grey norm. Where she stood now was a dramatic contrast.

She calmly removed her outerwear and hung it by Sherlock's signature coat. Her gaze lingered over it for a moment before turning to take in her surroundings more closely. Other than an overturned kitchen chair that was pushed under the table, everything else seemed remarkably undisturbed.

Molly righted the chair before she progressed into the sitting room.

_Ah…the curtains._

They were roughly drawn over the windows; almost completely blocking the sunlight from filtering into the room.

_That's a bit odd._

Her eyes traveled to the couch where she indeed found what she expected to find.

The detective was curled up in an almost fetal position, his back to the room. He wore a crumpled white shirt and hopelessly creased trousers. She could tell that he hadn't changed clothes or showered since his return.

Walking over to the windows she gently opened the drapes and her vision adjusted once more as she made a more detailed assessment of the room.

It seems like matters were as she feared they might be. There was literally no sign that Sherlock was even here, other than the evidence of his prone form on the couch before her.

Her eyes settled on his desk. His laptop was now equipped with all the latest assistive technology. Mycroft supplied his brother with screen reader, text-to-speech and speech recognition software. There was even a refreshable (paperless) braille notetaker and keyboard that was rather impressive looking; as well as a braille embosser, a heat fuser and swell paper. Everything Sherlock needed when and if he ever decided to join the land of the living. All of which has been completely untouched, as far as she could tell.

She thumbed through the stack of literature about rehabilitation services and mobility training. Various organizations were represented, including the Association for Visual Impairment; which just so happens to be located in Surrey, where his parents live. There was even information for the Royal National College for the Blind in Herefordshire.

She sighed.

Sherlock had everything he needed to aid in the adjustment; everything except his acceptance.

She knew there was quit a battle ahead of her and she'd have to grow an extra thick skin in preparation for their interaction. She had imagined every possible scenario; from complete and utter rage to a profound state of catatonia. There was a probability he would experience all of these things in various degrees and stages. That would be the healthy response to a major life altering disability. The worst thing he could do is nothing at all. She'll give him time, patience and understanding but she'll be damned if she was going to let Sherlock Holmes disappear.

She loved him too much for that.

Needing a little fortification before their first encounter, Molly remembered her desire for a morning tea, so she made her way over to the kitchen and allowed the kettle to scream for almost a half a minute, hoping that it would rouse the detective, making her task a little easier.

Being the eternal optimist that she is, she prepared tea for two and carried a full tray including the newly acquired biscuits, setting it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"What are you doing here, Molly?"

She jumped at the sudden rumble of his baritone.

A slow half-grin spread on the pathologists face.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Humph!"

There was a pause.

"I'm blind – not deaf, Doctor Hopper,"he said gruffly into the back of the couch.

Molly blinked once as her grin faded away.

"You're not dead either."

He was silent for a moment but then responded with a low almost inaudible voice.

"Pity."

Her heart clinched in her chest.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; her mind racing with how or if she should respond.

In the end she continued with her cup of tea, pouring the cream and one sugar.

Stirring the warm liquid, she settled herself on the end of the couch by Sherlock's legs.

"I made you a cuppa."

Silence.

"You never could resist my tea before."

No response.

She took her first soothing sip and let out a sigh.

"Go home, Molly."

She stared at his back for a moment contemplating her answer.

"I don't think so,"she said in a quiet but firm tone.

Sherlock slowly turned around and her breath hitched when his crystalline eyes appeared to settle on her brown.

His face was expressionless when he deliberately spoke in a low threatening voice.

"I don't want you here."

"Tough."

He continued to sit motionless.

Molly took another sip of tea. She glanced up again at the detective.

His brow furrowed slightly, crinkling the skin between his eyes.

_Infuriating woman._

"Tea?"

Another pause.

"Fine!" he bit out and hastily swung his legs out in front of him, just barely missing her.

The small grin appeared again as Molly stirred his cup of tea after adding two sugars.

Sherlock's brow furrowed even more as he brought his hands up slowly in anticipation of the mug. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant.

She placed the warm cup firmly in his hands and didn't let go until she was sure of his grip. He brought it tentatively to his lips and took a small sip. The warm sweet liquid was delicious and felt good as it coated his dry throat and filled his stomach.

He just now became aware of how cold he felt.

"Your fingers are like ice, Sherlock."

Molly watched as he eventually downed the whole mug in front of her.

"More?"

Still frowning, he nodded slightly.

She filled his cup once more.

"I have those biscuits you like. Have you eaten anything?"

He shook his head.

"Mrs. Hudson tried yesterday. I wasn't hungry."

"How about now?"

He sat there motionless for a minute before slowly extending one hand out, palm up. Not missing a beat Molly filled the large empty hand with two biscuits.

There they sat in silence; the only sound was the munching of short bread.

When both food and drink were consumed, Sherlock sat, vacantly staring straight ahead.

She sat there with him in the stillness, trying to feel out where to go from here.

"Satisfied?" he muttered.

Molly's heart sank at the hopelessness in the weak tenor of his voice.

Not knowing how hard she should push him at this point, she simply said, "Not by a long shot."

She saw something flash over his features before they turned to ice.

Sherlock reached out until he found the tables edge. After carefully setting down the empty mug, he promptly turned his body and assumed his previous position without another word.

Molly was left to stare at the detectives back once again and quashed another sigh that threatened to fill the silence.

Gathering up the tea things, she returned it to the kitchen, suddenly noticing it was unusually clean and tidy. Its natural state more closely resembled a mad scientist's laboratory than a kitchen. Instead, all the lab equipment was cleaned and organized along the back wall of the counter.

_Mycroft._

She understood why the current experiments were removed but that didn't stop the knot that was starting to form in her gut.

After cleaning and drying the mugs, she opened the fridge to put the milk and juice she bought away. The body parts were conspicuously missing. She had given him quite a stash a month ago.

_Hmm…I wonder._

Molly looked inside the freezer and found what she hoped for. All the body parts were appropriately sealed, labeled and neatly organized.

 _I'm evidently not the only one still holding out hope._ She smiled as she closed the door.

Taking one last look around, she grabbed her things and walked back into the sitting room. She quietly assessed Sherlock while putting on her coat and scarf.

Grabbing the tartan wool blanket that was folded over the back of John's old chair, she hesitantly covered the detectives' indifferent form.

"Well, I'm going now…please try to eat at least a little of what Mrs. Hudson brings you tonight? I'll be back tomorrow…and I'm warning you now, Sherlock, if you've not showered and changed your clothes by then, I'll make sure you do… personally."

With that threat hanging in the air, she gathered herself together and took her leave, closing the door behind her.

…..

Downstairs Molly filled Mrs. Hudson in, chatting over her second cup of tea. Her plan was to set out a simple plate of sandwiches in a couple of hours and hope that at some point before Molly returns he'd have consumed more than just a couple of biscuits.

While walking home, enjoying the brisk air, she contemplated her first encounter with a blind Sherlock Holmes.

She wasn't entirely convinced who won that round of wills. He may still be on the bloody couch but not only did she stir him from his Mind Palace, but she actually got him to take at least some nourishment!

She decided it was a small victory as he could have ignored her completely. The corners of her mouth broke into a smile.

 _I may lose a battle here or there but you can rest assured Mr. Holmes, that I will win this war_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi...*peeking over hesitantly*
> 
> ...What'ya think?
> 
> ...Hope it's a promising start. :D I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again...thanks for sticking with me! This next chapter begins the battle of the wills. I confess it maybe my favorite so far...just because it was so much fun to write! Hope you all enjoy it and I'd love to hear your thoughts! They encourage me a great deal!

 

Chapter 5

Molly rose much later than she did the previous morning. If Toby attempted to wake her it was to no avail because the clock read 9:14 when she finally awoke. That was unusually late for her as her natural body clock normally woke her up between 6:30 and 7.

Yesterday's visit to Baker Street must have taken a heavier toll than she realized. Feeling refreshed though, she hastily readied herself for her day.

She fought a feeling of gloom thinking about St. Bart's. She really did enjoy her job and it'll take a while to adjust to this new routine. Not knowing exactly how long she would be away from her work she consoled herself with the thought that it was in fact temporary.

Once again gathering herself to leave for her second Baker Street visit, she slowed to a halt. A wave of guilt washed over her when she realized that there was a strong possibility that Sherlock wouldn't be to returning to the work he loved.

Pushing the unpleasantness aside she allowed the thought to fuel her resolve regarding the detectives' dilemma. As Molly opened her front door she felt the sudden rush of cold air hit her face. Jolted from her reveries she bounded down the steps with a renewed vigor, determined that she was going to be a positive force in the life of the most impossible man she knew.

…..

_Damn it._

Molly stepped into darkness once again as she closed the door behind her.

_Why are those curtains closed again?_

She wasn't sure why it disturbed her so much. It's not like the light or lack of it really mattered in Sherlock's case. Perhaps that's why it puzzled her.

_Why does he care?_

It does, however affect her; in more ways than one. The darkness seemed to hold a deeper significance and did wonders in depressing her optimism.

After hanging up her clothes she walked over to uncover the windows, glancing at the couch. Unfortunately the light revealed an entirely unchanged prone detective…even more rumpled than the previous day.

She felt the anger starting to rise.

She calmly walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on and assemble the tray. Her actions betrayed nothing of what was brewing inside the petite pathologist.

She didn't want to lose her temper. Mainly because she didn't think it would do any good. Her memory flashed to the stinging pain she felt in her hands after slapping Sherlock's face; not once…but 3 times. Other than communicating to him just how hurt and disappointed she was, the outburst did nothing to influence anything positive from what she could see.

She was determined that she wasn't going to let him get to her. She needed to think. She needed to make good her threat…but how? Obviously she wouldn't be able to physically overpower the detective. What powers of influence did she currently have at her disposal? In the past the threat to lab privileges or the procurement of body parts was enough to keep him in line…well, sort of. Now, however...there needed to be a new strategy.

When the water boiled Molly decided against joining Sherlock. She needed a plan. There must be something. She frowned into her cup, absentmindedly stirring its contents. What was it that always worked on Mycroft when Sherlock's back was against it?

An unusually devious smile slowly emerged on Molly's face. Draining the last of her tea, she went into the bathroom and proceeded to draw a nice hot bath for one grimy detective. As the tub was filling she went to Sherlock's closet to find some comfortable clothes and a dressing gown.

Humming a cheerful tune, she emerged from the bedroom to check on the bath.

…..

He tensed as heard her footsteps approaching. If it wasn't for his blasted bladder he'd still be deep inside his Mind Palace.

_Why can't they just leave me alone?…damn sentiment._

Deducing her movements he knew she opened the drapes again.

_Bloody hell._

Hearing her leave the room his body began to relax again. He'll ignore her this time about the tea.

He frowned though when she never returned with his cuppa. He could hear the tinkling of her spoon so he knew she was drinking her own tea now.

He felt a bit…indignant, which confused him.

_I didn't want her bloody tea anyway._

So why did he feel so…vexed?

His curiosity piqued when the pathologist was on the move again.

_What now?_

His eyes grew large when he comprehended what he was hearing.

_She wouldn't._

The sound of running water became louder when the door opened and he once again heard her movements. He heard drawers and closets opening and closing.

Sherlock swallowed thickly as he listened to her before disappearing back into the loo.

_Humming...why is she humming? And why does this disturb me so much?_

Deep down he knew why he felt uneasy.

She was confident.

_Why?_

He couldn't shake the feeling of dread that this tiny woman somehow had the upper hand. He found himself sitting up, waiting for her. His frame tensed once again with the sound of her approach.

Molly wasn't too surprised when she saw Sherlock sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch. She suppressed a giggle at the sight of him. He looked wary, uncertain of what she was going to do next.

_Good...I need to keep this genius on his toes._

She folded her arms across her chest and just stood there watching him for a moment. This didn't improve his bad temper. In fact it seemed to make him tetchier. Finally it was the detective who flinched.

"WHAT!" he barked.

"Ready, then?"

He blinked rapidly, clinching his jaw several times.

"Actually, no… if it is indeed any of YOUR BLOODY BUSINESS, MOLLY HOOPER!"

"Irrelevant, Sherlock Holmes…" she said, matching his menace; although her tone was much calmer than his rising hackles.

"I've readied a nice hot bath, so you better get yourself in there before it becomes frigid."

He sat there totally agitated and flummoxed …color rising on his usual pallor. Would he call her bluff? Yes, apparently he would when he simply asked…

"Or what?"

The question hung in the air. Molly reached for her phone that lay in her tote…unlocking it, she accessed her voice command.

"Dial Violet Holmes"

The detective's brows vanished under his rather unruly crown of curls and she thought she saw his left eye start to twitch.

Molly's phone dutifully stated its task…"Calling Violet Hol-"

"That will not be necessary." He rapidly uttered in an abysmal fashion.

Molly instantly clicked off before the connection was made and calmly returned her trusty phone to her bag.

The man child rose to his full height, attempting to salvage what was left of his pride. He swiftly sidestepped the coffee table and nimbly albeit sightlessly bypassed her to his waiting bath.

Slamming the door behind him, one would never have guessed the man was blind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so this is a bit cliffy but I promise to update in a couple of days! ;D
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83...beta extraordinaire!

Chapter 6

 

She found herself at 221B earlier than she had originally intended. She rose at her usual time and was out the door by a quarter to eight. Stopping at her favorite coffee shop she picked up three javas and half dozen scones.

Mrs. Hudson was delighted with the treat and Molly sat with the older lady relaying the events from the day before. By the time she started up the stairs with Sherlock's tepid cuppa, Mrs. Hudson's sides ached from laughter.

Hoping that the sounds of merriment at the detective's expense were contained to the first floor, Molly ventured upstairs with her offerings of good will.

…..

_Not again!_

Making a beeline for the windows she whipped the drapes open, allowing the sun's rays to vanquish the gloom. She was a little surprised to find Sherlock missing from his usual spot.

"Oh goody, the Hygiene Fairy…mmm, no wait, make that, the Hygiene Nazi is here."

Molly jumped at the sudden proximity of the man. He turned abruptly and sank into his chair, apparently still nursing his sulk.

_How can a blind man sneak up on a person?_

When she reached his chair she stuck the bag of indulgences under the detective's nose. "I have a peace offering."

His traitorous nose inhaled the lovely aromas wafting from the bag and his resolve to ignore the pathologist quickly evaporated when she thrust a tall coffee in his hands.

"I hope it's still warm enough," she said with a small smirk.

Reluctantly Sherlock gripped the cup and took a sip. "Tolerably"

Molly rolled her eyes as she went to take off her coat and scarf. Walking back into the room she smiled as she observed the detective munching on an apple cinnamon scone. She also saw the tray of sandwiches Mrs. Hudson left the night before…completely untouched. She sighed.

"What now?" His eyes narrowed as he turned his head in her direction.

"I think you need to try to eat something more than biscuits and scones, don't you?"

"One mother is entirely sufficient Doctor Hooper…clearly." Her eyes twinkled in amusement but she didn't reply.

"Don't you have somewhere to be…namely your job of cutting up cadavers?"

"I took some personal time."

She watched with satisfaction as he consumed the rest of the scones and coffee.

…..

Molly's visits soon turned routine. There weren't any major breakthroughs, but Sherlock no longer chaffed at her presence. Yet she still didn't sense the time was right to share her plan.

She trusted her instincts with him; so she waited.

…..

_Oh, for crying out loud!_ She crossed the blackened room for the umpteenth time and yanked open the curtains once again. _Why does he do that?_

"Good afternoon, Doctor Hooper…we were a bit tardy this morning…and when I say 'we' I mean of course…you."

Her face registered more than a little shock. "Um, yeah, a bit I guess…sorry." She honestly didn't think he was aware of her comings and goings. She certainly didn't think he cared. He's just being Sherlock. She was feeling guilty for being pleased that he couldn't see her blush. Flopping down in John's chair, she took out the latest Pathology Digest and began to read it aloud.

…..

They sat in somewhat of a companionable silence until Molly's curiosity got the better of her.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm"

"Why do you shut the drapes?"

Immediately she felt him become guarded. She looked over to see his arctic stare.

"I, uh…was just wondering. It seems a bit… odd; I mean…you know, being…" _Ugh, I sound like an idiot again._ "Sorry…I didn't mean to pry, I was just curious to…'

She was cut off by the detective's sudden retort.

"What is the purpose of a window or mirrors…use your head, Molly…for god's sake."

She blinked at him.

He let out a frustrated sigh before ruffling his hair. His knees bounced in front of him and he shot up from where he sat. He just stood there as if frozen to the spot. Molly sat at the edge of her chair; totally alert and waiting for what would come next.

Sherlock remain motionless, his body completely stiff with tension.

"Explain it to me…just…talk to me, Sherlock."

His eyes softened a fraction at her soft almost hushed tone. Turning his head, he juts out his jaw, as if steeling his resolve. He slowly walked toward the window with his arms just slightly extended out in front of him, until his long fingers grazed the glass. He could hear Molly move closely to his side. He stood there for a moment trying to collect his thoughts. Her heart ached for him as she could see a longing in his eyes.

"We take them for granted…windows. We don't really think about how significant they are."

His voice was small as he spread his hands out on the smooth surface of the glass. There was a pause.

"It mocks me, don't you see?' …the tone of his voice growing bitter.

"…just a cruel reminder of what I've lost." With a quick flick of his wrist he yanked the curtain shut in front of him concealing the window once again.

Tears ran down Molly's cheeks before she stopped them with the sleeve of her jumper. She felt a bit foolish trying to hide her tears from a sightless man. She turned to walk away, when Sherlock's hand shot out and gripped her wrist tightly.

Shocked at the sudden contact and the apparent precision of his movements, she stood stock-still. Her breath hitched when she looked into his stoic face. For almost a minute they stood like this…motionless. His expression was the only thing that shifted, as he appeared to study her.

"Your sleeve is wet."

She choked out a sorrowful sort of laugh as she considered the irony. With a smirk, Molly shook her head and looked up through her lashes. "Damn you Sherlock Holmes…even blind, you can still deduce me."

His eyes grew wide as his frown turned into something more closely resembling astonishment, as he considered her words. She could feel her heart rate increase as she realized that this may be her best chance to get through to the detective...her window of opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are your thoughts? I love your feedback, so don't be shy!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Molly's finally going to spill...how will Sherlock respond?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Writingwife83...you are FANTASTIC!

Chapter 7

 

"You really don't know, do you?"

A scowl once again graced the detective's striking features. This time he looked a little affronted at her question; chaffing at the likelihood of ignorance on…well, anything.

Abruptly he released his grip on Molly's wrist; letting his own arm drop to his side.

"What are you talking about?"

She looked into those sometimes aqua-marine eyes…pausing to gather her thoughts. "I never believed it possible that you would be guilty of underestimating your own capabilities."

He stood there blinking at her. His mouth opened slightly and closed again a second later.

Molly sighed and let out a soft low chuckle before turning to walk over to John's chair.

"You of all people!" she said as she settled down into it. She sat there, waiting for his response; watching for any sign of life.

She thought perhaps he slipped into his Mind Palace again, when suddenly he took three brisk steps across the room to his chair, sat down with a flourish of his dressing gown and elegantly crossed his legs.

She sat there gazing at him in amazement. One would never guess he was blind by that display of self-assuredness.

"Care to enlighten me then, Molly Hooper?"

She saw a spark of his old self through a blur of fresh tears that threatened to flow once again. Blinking them away, she took a shaky breath before getting on with her proposal.

"It seems to me that you've disregarded your other four senses, Sherlock. Granted your eyesight has been a very significant part of your deductive skills; it is just that though, one part…of a greater whole. In fact, the ability to extrapolate such a high level of data and interpret that into proofs, could count as a sort of 6th sense in my opinion."

_Okay, Hooper…time to shift focus and state your case._ "You've always preferred having an assistant; a different perspective or…set of eyes."

She paused here before letting the other shoe drop. Taking another deep breath, hoping it would steady her voice, she finally took the plunge. When she spoke it was soft and gentle but had a strength that reminded him of another time he was in need and desperate, but for an entirely different reason.

"You can have me…"

Sherlock's mouth fell again when he heard those same words…for a second time.

"…my eyes, I mean. You'll need to train me of course…to hone my skills of observation. But I'm confident that I can do it. We've always worked well collectively and yes, it'll take a little bit of time to work out the kinks…"

Molly was looking down at her hands as they rested in her lap. Not wanting to see his reaction just yet she soldiered on.

"I've talked with Mike Stamford about the situation. He was extremely supportive. I know you're aware of how much he admires your gift. I'm on personal leave right now and we'll be training Todd and Rebecca to be my fill-in. I believe they're the only two interns that you didn't call 'idiots', so I have high hopes they'll work out."

She was sure he could hear the smile in her voice.

"My schedule can be as flexible as we need it to be. You may have to give up those cases that are 2's and 3's but I can't imagine you'll find that to be a major loss. With your fancy assistive tech, you may even be able to solve them without leaving your flat anyway. The bottom line here is that I'm familiar with your methods and…idiosyncrasies. You're aware of my strengths and weaknesses, no doubt. I strongly believe that your other senses will sharpen even more. I know you'll adapt, Sherlock. I know you. In time this will be the new normal and you'll be as formidable as ever; you'll just have added…well, me."

The silence that filled the flat became so heavy it was almost agonizing. It was out of her hands now. He needed to want this or it would never work.

Chewing her bottom lip, Molly threw caution to the wind and ventured a glance at the detective to see where he stood.

He was staring at her…or at least it appeared that way. The intensity of which was so acute she found herself squirming in her seat. After a fairly long while, he shifted in his armchair and cleared his throat. Brow slightly lined, he spoke in a deeper quality than his usual tenor.

"I…' He hesitated; licking his lips before continuing. '…need some time… to think this over."

She released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Of course…I understand." She said with a quick nod and smile.

There was an awkward silence that followed, prompting Molly to rise from her chair. She made her way over to her things, putting on her scarf and coat. She watched Sherlock track her movements, tilting his head slightly to the right. He stood up just as she finished putting on her shoes. Grabbing her tote and keys, she came to stand in front of him.

"If you come back tomorrow I should have my answer."

Molly smiled up at him relieved that it was all out in the open now and off her shoulders. It was totally up to him if he wanted to accept her help or not. It was his choice.

"That's fine…tomorrow then…probably the afternoon sometime."

He nodded in return. There was something in his expression she couldn't quite name.

"Okay, then…I'm off." "…Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Mm…?"

"Please eat something."

She turned and left the flat but not before she saw the detective roll his eyes while wearing a ghost of a smile on his lovely lips.

...

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's decision...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are just so incredibly kind and encouraging. I love reading your comments! Thanks for taking the time!

Chapter 8

 

Molly brought everyone up to speed regarding the latest developments. Each passing day just seemed to add to the anxiety; so relief was felt by all when Molly's plan was finally revealed. There had been minimal contact from the others during this time, intuitively sensing that any overt reminders of his deficiency would bring more harm than good.

Now everyone seemed to be holding their collected breath, waiting for the ultimate outcome later that day.

…..

Mrs. Hudson met her by the door with anxious eyes when she arrived at Baker Street a little past one.

"Oh, Molly dear…I'm so glad you're here!"

"Is there something wrong?"

A feeling of dread formed in the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Hudson glanced up the stairs nervously biting her fingernails.

"I'm not quite sure…I went up with his tray last night; a couple of hours after you left…"

"Yes?" Molly frowned

"Well, he locked himself in his room, dear. There's been barely a peep all last night and this morning. I'm a bit worried actually."

The pathologist set her mouth in a thin line as her gaze followed hers up the stairs.

"Mm…I see"

_Well, I'll be getting no answers hiding out down here._

She gave the older lady an encouraging hand squeeze before ascending to the second floor.

When she opened the door everything was quiet and dark, as usual. After opening the drapes she put the kettle on and sank down into John's chair; waiting for the water to boil. Molly closed her eyes, feeling a sudden weariness overtake her body. She didn't sleep well the night before…not surprisingly. She was half drowsing when she heard the water whistling urgently.

Dragging herself up to fix the tea, she stopped short when she saw Sherlock standing in the threshold to his room. He stood there with an unreadable expression, attired in his purple shirt, black trousers and buff colored dressing gown, looking utterly gorgeous.

Her eyes became enormous before blurting out, "You're wearing my favorite shirt!"

She clapped her hand over her mouth, inwardly groaning.

_No, no, no…I didn't just say that!_

A smirk slowly spread over the detective's face as he walked purposely into the kitchen and stopped in front of the noisy teakettle.

"You better get that, Molly. I've yet to learn how to circumnavigate the stove."

Snapping out of her stupor, she all but ran over to the noisy article, removing it from the heat. She nervously prepared their afternoon tea with Sherlock standing silently behind her, no more than a meter away.

"You look…nice," she said quietly over her shoulder, feeling a blush rise on her cheeks.

"Thank you…I used the color indicating device Mycroft provided; interesting gadget, actually."

"Mm…that's good."

She turned to face him with a loaded tray. Feeling suddenly awkward she said, "Shall we sit?"

Sherlock simply nodded and strolled to his chair, seating himself without a moment of hesitation.

She stood and marveled for a second before following him into the sitting room, setting down the tea.

"Looks to me like you've totally acclimated to your flat," she said in amused amazement.

Handing him his steaming mug, she smiled at his rather amenable expression.

"Yes, well…I'm progressing, it seems. I still have a lot to learn, obviously," he mumbled into his brew before taking a mouthful.

Molly settled herself into the chair opposite the detective. She could feel the butterflies getting restless in her stomach as she relished the warmth of the cup in her hands. The hot liquid seemed to ease the peaking of her nerves a bit as they sat in an easy silence.

Molly was determined to wait for him to discuss the proverbial elephant that sat squarely in the middle of the room. She didn't want to push him but was finding it exceedingly difficult to stay indifferent. Sherlock was on his second cuppa and biscuit number four when he finally cleared his throat to speak.

"Molly…" Inhaling deeply, he held his breath for a second before letting it out in a huff.

"I…accept your offer…of assistance." He looked down and frowned into his mug. "I do, however, feel the need to…caution you."

She knew where this was going. He and Mycroft were indeed brothers. She considered stopping him with her reassurances, but she was actually curious as to what he had to say.

"I'm listening," was all she said in response to his pause.

He looked up at her and appeared to scan her face before continuing.

"Quite…" he cleared his throat again, which caused Molly to smile slightly.

_He's…nervous; interesting._

After a moment he carefully put his cup on the small table and rose to his feet, pacing a bit before stopping to her right.

"Ordinarily I would trust your certitude regarding my…idiosyncrasies, as you call them."

His mouth turned up in a half-smile. Taking two steps toward the window, he stopped and turned once again to face her, punching his fists into the pockets of his dressing gown.

"These are extra-ordinary circumstances, Molly. I find myself…uncertain at my reaction to the unknown. My concern is mostly for your …your…"

She interjected with a strong voice. "…my emotional fortitude?"

Blinking at her, his eyebrows shot up under his curls.

"YEES, that is one way to describe it…yes." Looking down at the floor, he rocked on the balls of his feet. Her smile grew wider. At that moment he reminded her of a muddled little boy.

Molly got up and stood in front of him, causing him to still. On pure impulse she pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping her slight arms around his waist. She held him tightly for about 6 seconds, feeling him stiffen at first but relax soon after. By the time she pulled away his hands rested lightly on her shoulders.

Taking a small step back she looked up at him with eyes shining; his senses dazed but his hands still maintaining their contact.

"Why don't we make a deal, Sherlock Holmes? If you do your best, I'll do the same. And if you become too much of an insufferable arse, I'll let you know. Worst comes to worst…I promise to tell Mary if you become downright unbearable, yeah?"

Sherlock's eyes seemed to flash a number of different emotions, but settled on a mixture of admiration and confusion. When he didn't respond, she took hold of both wrists that still gripped her shoulders.

"Are you in?"

She saw a slow half-smile grow on the detective's face as he let his hands slid down her arms until he finally released her.

"I'm in."

She felt almost chilled by the loss of his touch, but shook off the thought to appreciate the moment, the beginning of a new partnership of sorts, between the World's only Consulting Detective and his pathologist.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that one! Thanks to Writingwife83...you're perfection! :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful feedback, guys! Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Chapter 9

 

Over the course of the next 6 weeks, there was witnessed more than one flash of brilliance involving the continued education of Holmes and Hooper.

Learning braille can typically be a long and arduous process for any 'normal' brain; for the mind of a Holmes however, it would not be more than a breath of an afternoon. The British Government had been put upon in the past to master a number of languages, for purposes of diplomacy and espionage; all in a matter of hours. So for Holmes the younger, the erudition of Braille was elementary.

In fact he would grudgingly admit, only to his pathologist, that he found communication through tactile modality fascinating. This, of course was the best case scenario; forced tedium would have been the worst, by far.

The most intriguing aspect of the whole process however had to be the transformation of his Mind Palace. Molly wasn't sure when the progression started. It may have initiated the moment he opened his sightless eyes.

In the face of the unfamiliar, there is at first, an empty matrix or blank canvas, if you will. The void is filled in accordance to the data, in as much detail as is provided.

For example, if he is told that there is a closet on the east wall of a square-ish room, his brain extrapolates a basic representation, until he enters the room and "feels" the wall and door with his fingertips. At this point, the place of interest is "refreshed" with what appears to be an exact replica of said room.

Doctor Hooper was indeed correct when she predicted sensory enhancement. Sherlock's sense of touch has so sharpened that when his fingers sweep a room under the guidance of his pathologist, he can navigate around as if he were sighted again; which in a way, he was; thanks to the emergence of his Mind Palace as a type of virtual reality.

The first 'downloading of information' was at, of course, 221B and then led to every nook and cranny of the townhouse, from the roof to the still unoccupied basement flat. Mrs. Hudson only drew the line at the privacy of her boudoir, which he agreed to with a roll of his eyes.

It was indeed a wonder to behold, a blind man sauntering around with more agility than that of the sighted.

…..

Early on Sherlock made it clear that any outside aid regarding his rehabilitation was not welcome. "Unnecessary, Molly…I have complete confidence in our ability to acquire all essential knowledge concerning the matter."

When the subject of a guide dog was broached, the detective curtly made the unfortunate remark; "Why would I need a canine when I have you Molly?"

As oblivious as he could be regarding certain statements being, 'a bit not good' Sherlock seemed to realize immediately his faux pas. 

"That…didn't come out the way I…intended."

Her first bristle at his insensitivity faded as he continued in an assuaging tone. "At the moment, I am quite contented with your assistance…and on the occasion when I'm alone, the blasted stick will suffice. Perhaps at some point in the future, if the need arises…" He let the thought drift off.

Sherlock suddenly sprung up from his chair and strolled over to put the tea on. Molly observed how elegant and almost beautiful his movements were, using his fingers gracefully to reinforce his spatial sense. The deliberateness of his movements reminded her of the poised fluidity of traditional Japanese tea ceremonies.

She sat transfixed until he started back with the loaded tray, which prompted her to rise hastily with the intention to take it from him. Stopping abruptly before she could reach him, his posture stiffened and he whispered roughly, "No".

She instantly stopped in her tracks. "Okay" she croaked out, eyes wide.

He resumed his plotted course to the coffee table and set down the tray. He stood there a second with his back to her.

"Time will soon prove Molly, that I will need your help in… most everything." His voice was nearly melancholy when it continued.

"In here…I'm able to retain a measure of…normality. Out there however…" Sherlock turned his head to the window. It was then when she saw something in his eyes which was undeniably rare…self-doubt.

Suddenly he turned to face her, once again wearing his usual bravado, not a trace of uncertainty to be found.

"Tea?"

…..

The adage, 'the devil is in the details' had taken on a new level of meaning for the duo over the next week. Who would have imagined that there existed 4 different types of white canes (or sticks, as Sherlock preferred to call them; to him the former insinuated infirmity). In the end he decided on the shorter guide stick, albeit having a more limited mobility function, it seemed to fit him better.

He drew the line at Mycroft's "meddling" when it came to configuring his new phone. He insisted that it not only meet his needs but his own high standards. It was now equipped with one hand operation, text to speech, voice operated speed dial and voice SMS capability with an interface that enables eye-free operation using touch and sound only…all completely state-of-the-art, of course.

With Sherlock's tech upgrade now complete, Molly needed to attempt something much more complex and potentially problematic…persuading the man to venture outside the safe confines of 221B.

…..

"People will talk!" Her eyes grew large and her complexion tinted to a lovely shade of pink.

"Come now, Molly…really… what does that matter…?" He rolled his eyes as he turned away from her stunned expression. He plopped down at his laptop and started typing into his braille keyboard.

"Well…" Molly's cheeks puffed out a bit from the breath she was holding before exhaling it rather loudly.

Sherlock paused, grimacing as he looked up in her direction. "Problem?"

"Um…yes, well…" _Yes...Go ahead! Tell him…he'll think you're no better than a pubescent child!_

"You did use the word intuitive once, didn't you?" His brows raised in impatient expectation.

"No…sorry, it's fine." She giggled nervously as she tidied a stack of papers by the window.

"Good!" He gave her a quick smile before returning to his typing.

She looked back at him, still fiddling with the paper piles. "When do you want to…you know…try it…out?"

"Mm?...oh, yes… soon, I think."

"Okay." She turned and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea…to sooth her jumping nerves.

…..

"It will be very simple, Molly. I will only need a simple twist of your wrist in whatever direction…up to walk or back to slow or stop, etc."

The detective and the pathologist stood in front of 221B on a clear crisp fall night, early morning really, if truth be told…

...holding hands.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOooo..any theories on how our detective will fare on the streets of London?

Chapter 10

 

~Moments before…~

Her heart started to race as she pulled open the front door and stood under the clear night sky. The nip in the air helped to cool her rising blush. _Ugh…get a hold of yourself, would you? You're assisting him…nothing more!_ Molly turned to look up at the detective when she heard the door close behind her.

Dressed in his coat and scarf for the first time in almost 2 months, Sherlock turned his face to the sky and took a deep cleansing breath as he flipped up his collar.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment.

"Where are you?" he snapped out with a slight scowl.

Molly took a quick step closer and piped "I'm here...sorry!"

Releasing a rather dramatic sigh, the detective extended his right hand in her direction.

"Shall we?"

…..

There was hardly a person out due to the late hour. It made sense that their first walk would be a late one; hence fewer, well…moving targets. In spite of the fact that it was their first 'run', they were maintaining quite a pace. As they approached the corner Molly pulled back slightly and they both slowed to a stop.

"We're at the corner now," she said in a whisper.

"Yes, I know Doctor Hooper; I can hear the clicking of the traffic light…and why are you whispering?"

"Oh, I don't know…" she chuckled. "...being silly I guess." _You need to relax Molly Hooper!_

As the light changed she pulled their hands slightly forward, but abruptly stopped…"Wait! What about curbs?"

"Squeeze my hand twice and then proceed…I'll get the hang of it."

Following his directives they successfully traversed their first deserted street, albeit a bit warily. They walked for a while before Sherlock said, "I think we proved successfully that we can walk a straight line, Molly…I believe it's time to mix it up a bit, don't you?"

"Oh, okay…which way then?"

"Surprise me," he said, with a hint of snarky sarcasm.

So she did. A second later they reached the next corner. Molly twisted their hands and without hesitating or slowing in any way, they both promptly turned left. She soon changed direction once again to the right and then again to the right. Dutifully squeezing his hand at the required time, they soon were stepping on and off the curbs flawlessly.

The two of them walked liked this for a while, covering quite a distance. So far the system was working rather well and their pace slowly started to increase along with their confidence. The exercise aided in releasing endorphins, which in turn began calming her nerves.

"Why don't we start making this interesting?" A mischievous smirk suddenly appeared on Molly's face.

"Hmm?" Sherlock shot a questioning glance in her direction. "What do you have in mind?"

The petite pathologist let out an impish giggle which triggered a somewhat apprehensive look from the detective.

"I do recall you saying that you trusted me, Sherlock," she said with hint of playful challenge.

His eyes enlarged slightly then narrowed as he shifted his gaze repeatedly, revealing a conflicting sequence of deliberations flitting across his face.

Suddenly she started to increase their already brisk pace until it was just short of a jog.

"Molly…"his response sounded a bit like a warning and a question.

"Ready?" She unexpectedly turned their hands to the right and squeezed twice almost simultaneously so that they bounded across the middle of New Cavendish to Cleveland and eventually to Newman Passage, a narrow alleyway linking Newman and Rathbone Streets. Molly signaled to slow as they ambled rather breathlessly under the Newman Arms and onto Rathbone.

"You're not going to take me through Percy Passage as well are you?" he said shamming irritation. But Molly could see vivacity in the detective's eyes that wasn't there before.

"Wait! How the hell do you know where we are?" She gasped, raising her hands (and his) in disbelief.

"Ahh…yes, this is actually the first time we're running through London together, isn't it? I have a map of the city in my head, Molly…couldn't get lost even if I wanted to; Believe me, I've tried."

She looked down at their clasped hands, then back to his face, which was almost glowing from their exploits. She smiled as she said, "Well, if anything…you're definitely not bored."

The detective flashed a half-grin and turned them towards home. "And that, my dear Doctor, is no small accomplishment."

On their way back Molly couldn't help but notice how warm Sherlock's hand was and how nicely it felt wrapped around her much smaller one. There was a slight fluttering in her stomach as she let herself enjoy the moment of physical contact. _Will I ever get used to this?_

Feeling a sudden need for conversation and probably distraction, she glanced up to see a completely composed and confident man walking sightlessly beside her. "It seems you were right" said she with a smirk in her lips.

"What specifically are you referring to, Molly?"

"I'm referring to this being 'very simple', Sherlock."

"Mm, yes well…let's hope we'll have the same success tomorrow…at rush hour."

"Oh…" she whispered weakly, as her smile faded from sight.

...

Molly's education of observation began with a systematic visual assessment of every crime scene Sherlock had on his hard drive. She sat, sometimes for hours at a time, staring at a computer screen and describing what she sees in painstaking detail. He would often correct her on her accuracy or point out something no other 'normal' person would even notice or deem relevant.

When Molly quietly challenged him on the materiality of a particularly minor point, he replied simply, "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

On one such night, well past the dinner hour, the Watson's dropped by…thankfully bringing some take-away at the off chance the pair hadn't eaten. They walked in with little Emmalyn in tow, to find a wearied looking Molly Hopper, sitting hunched over the lap top, with both hands cradling the sides of her face.

Sherlock was in repose on the couch with his hands steepled in front of him, eyes half closed, listening to Molly's voice as she droned on about the three ink stains above the belt of a dead man who lay spread-eagle on the floor of a public loo.

They didn't seem aware of their callers until a high pitched squeal filled the room and made the pathologist jump in her seat. Turning halfway round with one hand on her heart, she looked up, smiling broadly at their visitors.

"Oh, sorry guys!" she chuckled, "…in our own little world, obviously!"

Looking over at Sherlock, she picks up a crumpled paper ball and chucks it, hitting him squarely in the shoulder, making him flinch.

"Damn it, woman!"

"We have company, Sherlock!"

"Yes, Molly…I perceived the Watsons arrival precisely eleven minutes ago; painfully aware of the inane prattle they insist on engaging in with Mrs. Hudson, downstairs."

She wrinkled her nose at him and huffed, "I'm taking a break!" to which the detective huffed in return.

"How's my sweet Emma doing?" Molly stretched out her arms to receive the joyful bundle.

"We're hoping to wear her out so she'll sleep through the night tonight." Mary smiled sheepishly.

"Got pretty close last night, actually…woke us at 4:30," John said as he rubbed her tired eyes.

Suddenly Sherlock sprang from the couch, stepping up and over the coffee table. He effortlessly strolled past the gaping guests, into the kitchen to put on the tea.

Molly's gaze followed him with a smirk. "Show off," she muttered under her breath.

"Oh, Sh…did I just see?"…Mary's hands flew over her mouth in shock.

He turned with one eyebrow raised, in an air of feigned indifference.

"YOU GIT!...did you get your eyesight back and didn't bother to tell us?" John barked, nearly apoplectic.

"No, John! I would have told you!" Molly clutched John's elbow in alarm.

All, including Emmalyn Watson, proceeded to watch the detective methodically prepare the tea-tray. Molly slowly walked over to help. "I got it," she said with a smile, taking the loaded tray from his grasp. He nodded slightly, relinquishing his grip. Sidestepping her; Sherlock traipsed back into the sitting room and flopped into his chair, looking bored.

"It really _is_ an art with you, isn't it?" Mary asked with a cheeky grin.

"What is?"

"Being a bloody drama queen…that's what!" she said slapping him hard on the arm.

"OW!" Sherlock rubbed his arm with a pout on his lips. "Violence doesn't become you Mary," he said, grinning at his own comment.

John stood with his arms stretched out, "So what's happened? You seem to…hell, your functioning just as well as…"

Looking down into the cup that was just pressed into his hands; Sherlock's smile widened. "Actually, John…in a way, I can see…"

Sitting down opposite the detective; John's brow knitted in confusion, with his mouth slightly open; he waited for his best friend to continue.

"I see with my mind…not my eyes."

In the course of the evening the detective and pathologist had consumed the Watson's gastronomic offerings and effectively conveyed "the new normal"; and in the end the goal of "wearing out" baby Emmalyn was achieved, much to their parents delight.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my lovely beta Writingwife83!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

Molly found out a couple of days later, the deeper truth behind the acquisition of the white stick.

On their outings about town the detective declined on all occasions to put it to any use.

"It's cumbersome and completely unnecessary when we're together," he would say at her suggestion.

She decided against pushing him further, even though she believed increased familiarity with the cane would only reinforce his mobility and independence even more. She needed to pick her battles and deemed that this one could wait.

When she arrived that Sunday afternoon she discovered that said stick wasn't collecting the dust she had assumed. "What on earth is that?" Molly asked Mrs. Hudson, as she made her way through the front entry hall. She heard a distant series of grunts and huffs accompanied by rather violent cracking sounds comes from below them.

"Oh that's Sherlock, dear…doing his training." She said patting her arm before turning to put the kettle on.

"Training?" Molly frowned, following the older lady into her kitchen.

"Yes, dear…" She turned and smiled. "You know…his cane," she said, nodding expectantly.

Molly's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"He didn't tell you, did he?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "What are we to do with that impossible boy?"

Molly whipped her head in the direction of another burst of whacking blows. "What…I mean, who?"

"Well," Martha spoke in a hushed tone as she set out her china cups. "It would seem that this fellow who's training him, is you know, one of those masters at one of those fighting arts…something or other." she said, motioning with her hands.

"Martial arts you mean?"

"Yes, dear…that's right…he seems a nice lad. I think he's single. Didn't see a ring or anything," the older lady said with a gleam in her eye.

Molly holding back an almost spontaneous eye roll asked, "When did this start?"

"Mm.'' Mrs. Hudson pondered as she prepared the tea. "I think it was this past Wednesday…or Thursday perhaps, I'm not sure, dear. The gentleman comes in the evenings for about an hour or so…not too late, mind you; I wouldn't be able to get any rest with that row, even with my soothers."

Another series of smacks and grunts assaulted their ears as if to prove her point.

"Huh." Molly looked in the direction of the commotion with an air of curiosity. "That's interesting."

"Why don't you go and take a peek, If you like," Mrs. Hudson said with a conspiring smile.

The corners of Molly's mouth broke into a similar grin as she walked over to the doorway that led downstairs. The sounds of combat acted like a siren drawing her closer; she paused to look back at Mrs. Hudson, biting her lip. The older lady waved her on in encouragement, "Go on dear…go ahead!"

Curiosity winning out, she all but crept down the stairs like a robber. The hall leading to the main set of rooms was dimly lit and she could feel the temperature change the nearer she came to the combatants. As she approached the large sitting room, her eyes focused on the two rapidly moving figures constantly shifting in and out of view, until Molly stood in the doorway taking in the unusual sight.

In the past, she had been vaguely aware that the detective possessed some sort of martial arts skills and she recalled Martha mentioning he was quite an accomplished boxer during his Uni days. But never had she witnessed any of it first-hand.

Her eyes were glued to Sherlock as he slowly circled his opponent. He wore loose fitting grey sweat pants and a black short sleeved tee. In spite of the basements cooler temperature both men were perspiring a great deal. His skin had a ruddy glow and his damp dark curls clung to the sides of his face; his jaw set in steely determination.

The man he faced was almost a foot shorter, had dark skin and an athletic build. As they rotated in her direction she could see that he too was visually impaired. As she watched them sparring she was amazed at their agility. The teacher stopped him a couple of times to point out some important points of contact and spatial orientation. It was obvious that Sherlock already had a good foundation in these techniques. What was needed was the understanding on how to take what he already knew and adapt it to his current needs. By the time their session ended she was totally intrigued.

Just as she turned to make a hasty retreat she heard, "Oh and this is my pathologist assistant Doctor Molly Hooper…she'll be instrumental in my return to the work. Molly, this is Sensei Luthais Manning."

Frozen in mid-stride she turned slowly back to the two men who were gathering their things. "Hello," she said in a timid voice. "Um, hope you didn't mind me watching…"

"Not at all miss." He strode over with a striking smile and an extended hand.

Molly shook it and smiled warmly in return. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Manning. I'm quite impressed with your skill."

"Please…call me Luthais," he urged, still holding her hand. "Thank you, but Mr. Holmes here has told me a little of your accomplishments together. That's equally impressive to me."

Molly could feel a blush rising as he finally released her hand. "Um, well, thank you but Sherlock is really the one who…"

"Nonsense, Molly…" the detective briskly interrupted. "Just be gracious and accept the complement."

"Um…okay, thanks then," she squeaked, just narrowly avoiding the man as he rushed past her through the doorway and up the stairs.

The instructor unfolded his white cane and walked in her direction, still wearing his grin. "He's a rather unique and determined man, this Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It's been an interesting experience training him."

Molly's smile grew and she nodded in agreement. "Yes, that he is …there aren't too many dull moments in Sherlock's company."

Making their way upstairs they chatted amiably for several minutes before parting ways.

After closing the front door Molly walked back to the kitchen to see Martha's smiling face.

"You two seem to get on rather well." Mrs. Hudson beamed, clapping her hands together in delight. "Wouldn't you say, Sherlock?"

"Oh give it a rest Mrs. Hudson. I've already advised Molly here against any future attempts at a relationship. This man can kill with one touch; that is quite a burden of responsibility you want to place on the shoulders of our pathologist." Sherlock started up the stairs with a cup of the older lady's tea, leaving behind two rather aggravated looking females glaring after him.

"For shame, Mrs. Hudson; and here I thought you were rather fond of Molly." They could just make out a trace of amusement in the detectives tone before closing the door behind him.

…..

Molly eventually found herself in Sherlock's flat much later on that night. She had decided she preferred to spend the rest of the day in Mrs. Hudson's company. She even considered leaving altogether, but a question nagged at her so she made her way upstairs.

"So you didn't tell me."

He sat in his chair, freshly showered, clothed in his pajamas and blue dressing gown. His eyes were closed with his hands steepled in front of him. "Tell you?" He opened his eyes large then narrowed them significantly before continuing with his inquiry. "Ah, the stick you mean."

"Any particular reason?" She wasn't sure why it bothered her. He didn't have to answer to her or keep her in the loop with every bit of minutia. Nevertheless since they had been together almost every day for months now she'd grown to expect a higher level of transparency, especially when it came to his rehabilitation. She'd hoped that Sherlock wanted to share the entirety of his progress with her, not just fragments.

Stirred from his repose he leaned forward, tilting his head to the left as he considered her. There was a brief tic in the corner of his mouth. "You're bothered…annoyed that I omitted sharing this with you."

Molly swallowed, looking down at her feet before taking a step closer into the room where the detective studied her. "Mm, annoyed may be a bit strong," she said, looking up through her lashes.

Raising his chin and then an eyebrow he countered, "I don't think so."

In boldness she raised her own chin and crossed her arms in front of her. "Oh?"

"Yes, it's your tone, Molly." Sherlock stood now to his full height, less than a meter away from her.

She internally deliberated whether she should be honest and risk sounding petty or worse, overly 'emotional'. It was then when she recognized that if she wanted him to be open with her; she needed to do the same.

Taking a deep breath, she let her arms fall to her sides and took another small step closer to him. Looking up she didn't see any arrogance or superiority in his eyes, just an honest inquisitiveness.

"I know this is an adjustment for you and there are a host of unknowns out there. I guess I was hoping you'd trust me a little more and let…"

"It's not about trust," Sherlock interrupted with an affronted look on his face. "I didn't think to tell you Molly, because the thought just never occurred to me. You know I'm no good at being…considerate, I guess you would call it." He said the word as if it left him with a foul taste.

_So it was simply a matter of him being Sherlock._ To some, the idea that she just never crossed his mind would have been worse, but not for her. She knew how he was. He didn't do sentiment and the fact was that unless filling her in served a practical or tactical purpose, the motive for such a thing would clearly have been sentimental. At least in his view. _Time to change the subject._

"I do find it intriguing, you know. I mean it's amazing the kind of damage you can do by just applying knowledge of the human body; its strengths and weak points. I actually regret never taking a basic self-defense course…especially as a woman and small one, at that," she said with a chuckle. Since she was looking down she missed the look of clarity that came over the detectives face.

"Well, Doctor Hooper…I think we can do something about that."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

"I would make the assumption that you are attired in comfortable clothing, Molly?" he asked as he carefully moved the chairs to clear a larger area in the middle of the room.

"Uh, yeah…my usual." She started feeling a bit nervous suddenly.

"There has been a rather essential alteration that I've been forced into and that is the degree of physical contact that I'm required to engage in," he muttered with a wrinkle of his nose. Removing his dressing gown and tossing it to the chair, he walked to the center of the room.

"It is however, fundamental to my current predicament. And in as much as it has challenged my sense of normality, I've found solace in the fact that it has become a conduit to the higher workings of the trained mind; surprisingly so," he said, looking up to the ceiling with a pondering expression.

"The shift from vision-centric perception to tactile and auditory modality has been quite an education; to a lesser degree even the olfactory and gustatory senses, although I'm dubious to the frequency of usage with the last two."

Molly smiled at the man's unusual level of communication regarding his personal ruminations. She wondered if there was a link to their earlier conversation.

"Where have you gone?" he queried with a frown.

"Sorry, here," she said raising her hand and stepping closer to middle of the room. She started chewing her bottom lip as her nerves started to get the better of her.

Reaching out to her, he said, "Come here then, Molly. I can only teach you, if I can touch you." As she quickly closed the gap between them, he rested his hands on her shoulders.

"All right…" He sighed, as he stood there gathering his thoughts. "There's much I'd _like_ to teach you…human pressure points, joint-attacking moves, etc…but since the hour is rather late we'll keep it simple for now. Manning has helped me to develop situational awareness. My opponent is invisible to me until we have contact and it is my job to take control as quickly as possible."

Sherlock took hold of her right wrist raising her hand up between them. "If you are grabbed, the idea is to respond in kind." He took her left hand and placed it on top of his own. "Since I can't see…this contact with the attacker's hand would give me access to vital data. I would first locate the thumb. This tells me how the attacker is positioned, their stance and posture and in turn, allowing me to disable them. For you Molly, the tactic enables you to trap the attacker' hand while you to rotate your other hand around to grip his arm and twist." As he spoke he also demonstrated the steps.

"Here, let me show you. You attack me…grab my arm," he instructed, raising his right hand.

Molly gaped for a second, and then did as he asked, taking a secure hold of Sherlock's forearm. He slowly demonstrated the technique, ending with a grip that could very easily snap her wrist.

"Ow…that's really effective!" Molly rubbed her wrist after he released her.

"Now you try it," he said before gripping her arm once again.

So she did. As she trapped his hand with her other, she rotated her arm to grip his and twisted… a bit too hard, sending the detective almost to his knees. "OKAY…Molly, let go!"

"Oh, are you okay? Sorry…I didn't…sorry," Molly said as a slow grin spread across her face. "Wow, that's very…empowering. I wish I learned this years ago."

"Yes, well…let's not waste energy on something as useless as regret and just live in the moment, shall we?" He grimaced as he shook out his arm.

"Next?" Molly asked eagerly.

"Right…" He paused to consider their next option. " Weak points…The most delicate parts of the human anatomy are the soft points…throat, eyes, ears, nose. The most dangerous position to find oneself would be on the receiving end of a choke hold. Choke me, Molly…NOT for real, obviously," he added hastily.

She placed both hands on his long neck, feeling the beating of his pulse against her warm fingers.

Before she could take another thought, Sherlock's arms shot up in between her hands and thrust outward breaking her grip instantly. Keeping them up as he continued, "This would be your best opportunity to strike and immobilize your attacker." Bending in both thumbs with his palms down, he demonstrated a quick strike to the eyes, a cupping of the hands to the ears and a palm strike with the heel of the hand, to the throat. "The use of the elbow is also very effective…taking it straight up to the face." He twisted slightly at the waist before bending his arm and slowly targeting the underside of Molly's nose with his elbow.

"Your turn." Sherlock took hold of the small pathologist's delicate neck with a gentile but firm grip. Her eyes widened at the touch of his cool fingers as they slid across her sensitive skin. She swallowed thickly as her mind raced to recall what she just learned.

"I'm waiting," he said, giving her neck a slight squeeze. As if waking from a daze, she reacted by swiftly breaking his hold and bringing the heel of her right hand up to make contact with his throat.

There was a hint of amusement in the detective's eyes as he took a step back. "Good. Let's increase the level of difficulty, shall we?"

He carried on with a technique called a wrist peel, by putting her left hand, palm down on his right shoulder; he trapped her hand and twisted it to the left, completely turning her whole arm in one move, while altering the direction of her entire body. "This is called an arm bar," he said, pressing his hand firmly against the back of her immobilized arm above the elbow.

Releasing her, he again took her hand, but placed it on his left shoulder is time. His fingers wrapped around her thumb side, twisting her whole hand so severely to the right, it curled her entire arm, while he pulled down, causing her to bend almost in half.

"When your attacker's face is below your hip, Molly, you would then finished them off with a knee to the head and the groin if need be."

Letting her go, she straightened to her full height and stretched out her back to recover from the awkward position.

"Okay?" he asked briskly.

"Yes…fine," she breathed out. "No problem. My turn?" she asked, flashing a grin.

Molly copied both maneuvers soundly, finishing with his body halfway to the floor.

"Good, good." He huffed as she released her control. "Remember when throwing a palm strike, an elbow or even striking a blow with a kick or your knee, you need to throw your whole body into it."

Coming up behind her Sherlock demonstrated by wrapping his one arm across her body ending with his grasp on her hip; while holding her left wrist with his left hand, he mimicked a punch and shifted both their weight with his body. The movements were smooth and fluid and it reminded her of a rather sensual dance move. She could feel her heart rate rise suddenly and stepped out of his embrace when she realized he could very easily read her pulse.

"Yes…good, I think I got it, thank you," she uttered rather breathlessly. Walking energetically into the kitchen she called over her shoulder, "Tea?"

Frowning slightly at the sudden loss of her, he let his arms fall to his sides, before letting out an affirmative grumble.

…..

"Oh, look…it's snowing!" Molly sprinted over to the window, staring at the churning swirls of white before her.

"Since it is impossible Molly, for me to 'look' as you say…I'll have to take your word that it is in fact, snowing. On the scales of probability however, I'd say that the chances are fairly high, considering we've been at the precipice of the winter season for quite some time."

She sighed in frustration, realizing her gaffe. As she contemplated her plight she mumbled, "Sorry, it's just…it's going to be hard finding a taxi at this hour, and in this…" She gestured in front of herself in dismay. "I didn't exactly dress for snow. My coat is really just a…"

"Then don't."

"Sorry, what?" Molly turned to face the man standing behind her.

"Don't go."

She blinked once, as her brow wrinkled slightly.

Walking over to the fireplace, the detective let out an exaggerated sigh as he picked up two fire logs and carefully arranged them in the hearth. "I had Mrs. Hudson prepare John's old room, in the event that you needed to stay the night."

Molly watched as he systematically set a blaze that suddenly made the room incredibly cozy and warm.

The lovely orange glow contrasted against the gusting snow beyond the window; the idea of staying quickly becoming more attractive by the second.

Satisfied with the burgeoning flames, Sherlock quickly turned and took a step toward Molly, but caught his foot on the recently shifted chair. As he stumbled forward, Molly instinctively rushed to break the detectives fall. They toppled…sending them both to the floor, with the petite pathologist hitting first.

Luckily his knee hit the rug at the onset, absorbing most of the impact, leaving the two in a heap of tangled limbs.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock's voice was gruff with worry.

Molly lay motionless with her eyes shut, underneath the weight of him. It took a moment for her to process exactly what happened and to contemplate her current position, literally. She slowly opened her eyes to see a deeply concerned expression on the detectives face, as he sightlessly gazed down at her, less than a half foot away.

"I…I think so." Her brain was trying to sort out their sudden proximity as well as ascertain any personal injury from the fall. She just knew at that moment in time, with her arms wrapped under his shoulders, she was definitely feeling no pain.

"Damn chair…I forgot I moved it. There's always something I miss apparently."

Looking up into his face, she saw a shift from shocked concern to something else. She wished more than anything that she could read the detectives thoughts. His upper body which was supported by his elbows leaned a bit to the left as she felt his right hand move up to touch the side of her head.

The countenance of his face changed as he processed the tactile information he was receiving, the softness of her hair and the warmth of her form beneath him. His thumb slowly grazed her jawline as he moved his hand along the side of her face. A second passed and rapidly his eyes became a mixture of confusion and irritation as he nimbly rose to his feet. His hand shot out in assistance, which she promptly took hold of. She almost flew to her feet by the strength of the man's tug and they stood facing each other for a moment.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "I'll make note of that…no relocating the furniture."

Before she could respond he was off down the stairs mumbling about informing Mrs. Hudson about the overnight, leaving Molly to gaze into the roaring fireplace.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extra long chapter due to one of my lovely reviewers. I'm dedicating this to Succi for her innocent remark about her interest in the Sherlolly overnight scene I left off with.
> 
> Well, I would have unintentionally left you all hanging, as I most cruelly never picked up where I had stopped. Terrible of me, I know.
> 
> So after consulting with my wonderful beta, Writingwife83, she agreed with continuing the scene.
> 
> SSsssssoooo...without further adieu...the newly revised, extra long chapter 13...thanks to you Succi! ;D

 

Chapter 13

She sat by the warm glow of the fire, staring out at the swirls of whiteness that rapidly blanketed the old streets of London. She watched as the gusty winds shifted, sending the flakes to and fro in a kind of frenzied dance.

It was hypnotic.

Molly could feel her eyes growing heavy as the sound of the wind lulled her into a restful haze. Just as her eyes shut, something suddenly landed on her head, covering her eyes.

"What…on…earth!?" she exclaimed, snapping out of her cozy slumber.

"Pajamas," Sherlock uttered matter of factly.

Molly's head turned to face the detective; her eyes still covered with the folds of fabric. She pulled it down to see Sherlock standing behind her, less than a meter away, looking quite pleased with himself.

"First of all, how did you know where I was?" she asked trying to hide her amusement.

"I could hear you breathing, Molly…and by its depth and rhythm, I would say you were almost asleep."

Sherlock smirked and took two steps forward but then stopped abruptly.

"Oh, I put them back…the chairs, I mean," she said with a small smile.

The detective took a step over to run his fingers over the back of the chairs soft leather. "Mm…and there they'll stay."

He turned to the shelf behind him and carefully reached out for something. Unable to see what he was up to, Molly looked down at the clothing in her lap. She smiled at the too long draw-string flannel bottoms and the supple grey tee shirt. The softness of them caressed her fingertips and on impulse she brought them to her cheek. She breathed in its fresh scent, closed her eyes once again and relaxed back into the chair.

_All I need is a blanket and I'll be out._

Her eyes snapped open at the melody of a violin.

Sherlock was now seated in his chair with his beloved instrument tucked under his chin. His eyelids were half closed as he gently drew the bow over the strings. The sound created was as warm and soothing as the rest of the setting.

Molly breathed a contented sigh as she snuggled into the chair with Sherlock's pajamas, watching the man she loved in the flickering firelight. She thought the sound of her contentment prompted an ever so slight smile on the detectives face as he continued his playing.

They stayed this way for a while; the pleasure of watching him kept the sleep from claiming her.

"There is something…in addition." He spoke in a low, almost hushed voice. The sounds of his instrument slowly building in energy.

"Um…what?" she whispered.

"An added modification…from the brain injury, along with the blindness."

Molly waited, as the notes he played became brighter.

"I have apparently developed chromosthesia."

Her eyes grew large as she slowly leaned forward in interest. "Really? That's a type of synesthesia, isn't it…sound to color?"

_Oh_ … Realization dawned as she watched him closely.

_How fascinating._

She sat back and watched him a little more as his playing shifted again to a softer more melancholy tune.

"What is it like, Sherlock?" she asked with a trace of wonder.

His eyes closed as a half-smile grew on the detective face. "It is…intriguing. The percentages of synesthetes are higher in individuals who play an instrument, apparently. I've never really felt inclined to put brush to canvas before…until now," he said as his small smile reflected a poignant irony that was in his voice.

Molly found herself mirroring his smile. "What are you seeing now? Can you describe it?"

"Mm…there is an association with particular notes and colors, like when I play C sharp…" He paused to play the note… "I see the color green. The shapes and movement shift depending on the cadence and timbre; while sustained musical tones I see with textures."

She sat and relished the music that flowed and encompassed the cozy room. Listening to the beautiful strains she started to feel her tiredness once more.

"I'm glad, Sherlock"…she mumbled sleepily. "Happy that you…gained something…beautiful…from…your…loss."

And with that last utterance Molly drifted off into a deep slumber and didn't wake until the soft rays of morning light warmed her face. Still hugging the soft pajamas, she also found that the wool tartan blanket had been tucked snugly around her body.

She laid there a little while longer, enjoying the sun on her face and delectation in her heart.

...

Molly wasn't sure if there was anything she could have really done to better prepare herself for the outcome of that day. Had she known it would bring their first case, she would have tried for something.

It was a little after their afternoon tea and she had decided to give her eyes a break from the intensive observational exercises Sherlock insisted on every day. She had just settled onto the couch, lounging with her eyes closed and ears tuned into one of her playlists when he got a call from Lestrade.

It was a kidnapping.

Molly slowly sat up as she pulled her headphones from her ears. Her eyes grew as she watched him carefully pull on his coat and scarf.

"But…I mean, are we…ready, you think?" she asked in a voice tinged with uncertainty.

Sherlock turned in her direction, walked over to his desk and grabbed the folded stick which lay next to the laptop. He stood there at the ready, cocked his head to one side and said in a rather bored tone, "You know as well as I do Molly, each hour expended lessens the likelihood of a safe return. I think the _family_ would appreciate having as many sharp minds present as possible, don't you?" With that the detective turned and walked down the stairs.

_Damn it, he knows just what to say sometimes._ Without missing a beat Molly was up and into her shoes and coat in less than 20 seconds, running down the stairs, and standing outside next to Sherlock as he waved down a taxi.

A wealthy businessman's son was apparently abducted three days ago. The family was alerted to the fact by a phone call, but had yet to receive any sort of ransom note. The DI said their investigation at the house proved fruitless, with no obvious signs of foul play. This was no child that was missing, but a young man of barely 21.

They drove west of London to the village of Bray in Berkshire, where the Hockley family resided…quite comfortably. The ride was a fairly long one and afternoon traffic was not facilitating their cause.

Closing her eyes, Molly took the opportunity to continue her much needed rest and in her mind she reviewed all the things that Sherlock tried to train and prepare her for.

According to Greg they will be entering an extremely affluent household with few to no clues of the son's whereabouts. Unless they uncover something the Yard missed all new information will have to be dug up through interviews. She knew that Sherlock would want to talk with the family and staff further, but all indications are that they know as much about the matter as they did themselves. Not much cause for optimism.

Emotions will certainly be running high. This in itself was nothing new to the pathologist. In fact she encounters some of the most unpleasant and heart wrenching of situations, sometimes on a daily basis. In the life and death scenario, she has always been on the later side of the equation. It had always involved shock and despair with the eventual acceptance of a tragic event; comfort in the form of answers that would hopefully lead to closure.

What she faced at the end of this taxi ride was something entirely different. She could feel her body tense as she prepared for the scene that awaited her. Her normal work environment was completely devoid of this particular pressure, the unmistakable presence of hope. From the moment they arrive the family will be looking to them for answers and for the safe return of their loved one.

She could only imagine what they must be going through. The empathy that has always served her well in the past was now wreaking havoc with her emotional constitution. She expelled a shaky sigh.

"What, Molly?"

Her eyes fluttered open and she nervously glanced over to the detective who also had his eyes shut.

"Nothing, I just…I guess I'm starting to feel the pressure." She could sense the anxiety starting to rise.

With closed eyes, the detective's mouth started to twitch into half a smirk before remarking, "Ah…I see. Well, don't let it bother you."

Her brow furrowed at his nonchalance. Turning to look at the passing city she muttered, "Easier said than done."

"Mm…for some of us…I guess."

Molly looked back over and studied him for a moment. "In this case I can certainly see the benefit of separating yourself from your feelings," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

His eyes opened and he glanced dispassionately in her direction. "Do you?" he asked dryly.

"They're already dead when I get them."

There was an echo of apprehension in her words that caused the smirk on Sherlock's face to disappear. He took a deep breath, before turning his sightless gaze in front of him. "You can't save the whole world Molly Hooper, but you do insist on trying, don't you."

She had never envied his talent for detachment before…until now.

…..

The house was named Orchard End and it was in the desirable Fisheries Estate less than a mile from the village of Bray near Maidenhead. As they approached, an electrically operated gate opened onto a brick paved driveway that rounded to the grand entrance of the home and passed a landscaped garden that led down to private access of the River Thames. It was impressive. There were several Yard vehicles parked along the side with a handful of officers passing to and fro.

The taxi stopped at the front entryway. Sherlock handed a roll of five pound notes to Molly before exiting. She sorted out the fare and quickly followed from the opposite side. As the taxi pulled away she walked over to where the detective was and stood side by side with him, facing the large double doors.

She looked up to gauge his mood and it was then when she realized that she was so preoccupied by her own insecurities she failed to contemplate how Sherlock may have been feeling.

He stood unmoving from where he emerged, tightly gripping his still folded stick in one hand. To anyone else the detective would have appeared completely calm and composed, but Molly knew better.

He wasn't okay.

His eyes flitted to the side as he heard the approaching voices of the others milling about. They hushed and then died as they came close and eventually passed them into the house. Molly witnessed the looks that were exchanged which immediately put knots in her stomach. Her hand instinctively took hold of Sherlock's and gripped it rather tightly. She suddenly felt the need to protect the man beside her but she wasn't sure exactly how.

"What do you need?" she said in a strong voice…so reminiscent of a time past, that it brought a small smile to the detective's lips. The hard edge in his eyes softened a bit as he contemplated his response.

"You." he replied in a muted tone, giving her hand a squeeze as well.

"And perhaps the return of the circulation to my fingers, Molly. You can loosen your grip; I promise not to run away."

…..

Greg was listening to Sergeant Donavan, his back to the door, when Sherlock and Molly entered the house. They caught the Sergeant's eye first as they stood evaluating their surroundings. The pathologist was talking softly in the detective's ear as he leaned slightly in her direction. He wore his usual attire and looked remarkably unchanged except for the rather distant look in his eyes and the white stick in his hand.

The DI noticed the sudden shift of attention and turned around to look behind him. It was the first time that he's seen Sherlock out of his flat since his injury. It was indeed a sight for sore eyes.

Starting toward the pair, Molly's gaze fell upon the officer just before he reached them.

"You're here!" Lestrade exclaimed with great relief.

"And you haven't lost your talent for stating the obvious, Chief Inspector."

Greg rolled his eyes, giving Molly a pained smile and a nod, which she readily returned. "Hello Greg, It's good to see you."

"You too, Molly. Thanks for coming. We're at a bit of a loss right now. Just finished a complete sweep of the whole place from top to bottom and there just doesn't seem to be anything out of sorts." the DI said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Have you interviewed the family and staff, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked in a curt tone.

"Uh, yeah, yeah…other than the phone call they got 3 days ago, there hasn't been anything out of the ordinary."

"Mm…I'll be the judge of that. I want you to clear everyone out of here…everyone, do you hear? Molly, I want us to start mapping every room starting from the entry."

Lestrade had his mouth half open when he suddenly turned back to the small group of officers that started to gather behind them. "Alright, you lot…pack it up, yeah? You're done for right now."

Donavan rolled her eyes but did as she was told and cleared the area so the duo could start their investigation…such as it was.

"What about the family and staff, Sherlock?" Greg asked before he followed the last of the departing set.

"No, not now…they need to leave as well or at the very least stay completely out of my way. They cannot hover in the background either. I will hear them and they will distract me. I will let you know Gavin, when I want to speak with them."

"It's Greg," he grumbled under his breath before he turned and walked out the door.

…..

It took them about an hour and a half to establish the basic framework of Orchard End and another three quarters of an hour to map all the major furnishings so the detective felt confident enough to fold up his stick.

Getting Lestrade on his phone he rapidly ordered, "I want to speak with one of the domestics…doesn't matter which one."

"Um…right," the DI muttered and a few minutes later a distinguished looking gentleman with greying hair entered the room. "My name is Harrison, sir…may I be of some assistance?"

"I hope so…I need you to take us to the son's room…now, please."

As they entered Weston Hockley's bedroom, Molly was struck right away at how sparse and impersonal it was, and she said as much.

"Mm…proceed with your observations, Molly…and leave nothing out."

It didn't take long. Aside from the apparent magnificence of the room itself, there was nothing particularly…well, particular about it. Nothing noteworthy or telling as to the type of person the young man was. Not one detail to speak of his tastes or unique personality.

Sherlock started to glower. "The closet…Molly, now!" Standing in the large and meticulously organized space the pathologist described what she saw.

The man had obvious good taste and the means to express it through his choices of designer labels, but other than his height, build and shoe size there was nothing of significance.

Molly could feel waves of impatience rolling off the detective. "This is quickly becoming an exercise in futility, Doctor Hooper. Everything we've learned thus far has been trivial at best. It's almost as if he's been living here as a shadow…just a facsimile of a real… " Sherlock stopped in mid-sentence and she saw a spark of realization on his face.

"Get Harrison"

…..

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed that one. Looking forward to your reviews, as usual! ;D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments...loving each one! ;D
> 
> So the plot thickens...

 

Chapter 14

The pair both sat on the floor of the lower levels of the grand house. There were four large fabric hampers that lay on its side, currently empty of its earlier contents that were now heaped up in large piles in front of them.

"There must be something here. No one is that thorough," he mumbled, as Molly continued to toss all the masculine apparel in Sherlock's direction, while the detective continued to rifle through every pocket he could find.

Molly stilled as he suddenly stopped his frenzied movements and was fingering an object of interest.

His eyes became large and a knowing smirk spread to one corner of his mouth. "Could it be that simple?" he said as he pulled out a rather crumpled matchbook.

She looked down at the prize in Sherlock's open hand. "Describe it please, Molly."

She knew that if this was indeed Weston's pants this could tell them at least something of interest about the young man. It was somewhat unremarkable in design. So much so, that it seemed purposeful in that intent, dark grey purple with simple white text on the front. No phone number or website, just one word…'Nocturne.'

As she relayed these details, Sherlock expression changed into one of recognition.

"What…?" she asked with eagerness.

"So it would seem that our young Mr. Hockley is not so morbidly dull as originally presumed."

"Oh?" Molly asked as she turned the small matchbook over to more closely examine it.

"Yes." Sherlock rose to his feet and began brushing off any dust that may be clinging to his trousers.

"That is a little known underground club hiding in east London; invitation only, of course. Not for the faint of heart."

"You talk like you…I mean, have you…?"

Sherlock glanced in Molly's direction and then back down to his hands as he straightened his shirt sleeves.

"For a case Molly, yes…there has been many a time when I needed to frequent the more unseemly underbelly of the city; I think you know that."

Her right hand spontaneously tingled as she briefly clinched it into a fist. A deep frown emerged on the pathologists face. "Forget I said anything."

…..

After confirming that the particular Fendi trousers that carried the matchbook were indeed Weston's, they went to examine Mr. and Mrs. Hockley's bedroom.

Romford Hockley made his fortune in metal fabrication, working his way from a small local business in Wokingham to a nationally renowned enterprise. The man was quite accustomed to hard work and tireless dedication. Beatrice Hockley was from what they could gather, a dutiful wife and mother, heavily involved in her community since the rearing of her two children. Daughter Julia was the older child and had recently been married a little over a year ago and lives less than a mile away.

Molly described a side table and a dressing table that was full of family pictures. Most of which were of their children. "Huh."

"What, huh?" Sherlock probed with not just a little impatience.

"Well, I'm just noticing…that there aren't any recent pictures of their son here. The most recent appears to be this one…over here." She picks up a small 5x7 snap shot of a group of teenage boys in some sort of uniform. "This has got to be at least 3 or 4 years old, I would think."

"What about the wedding pictures?"

Molly scanned all of them, five in all, and none of them included Weston.

"Mm…I think it's time we had our little chat with the parents and staff," he said with a slight scowl.

…..

The pathologist was never one to stereo-type people or to make assumptions based on the most minor of facts. This being said, upon meeting the Hockley's she admittedly found herself doing exactly that.

They seemed to be the quintessential self-made man and lonely but faithful spouse.

He was a large man with a square-ish build, a couple of inches taller than Sherlock. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short in almost military fashion. In fact she wouldn't be surprised if he had in the past served in some capacity.

Beatrice Hockley was a lovely silvery haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a plum colored cashmere wrap dress that flowed out from the waist, the length falling just below her knees. In a pearl earring and necklace set with nude colored heels, she made quite the impression of a flawlessly put together wife of a millionaire. The only clue that something was amiss was the haunted look in her almost violet eyes.

When Sherlock and Molly walked into the drawing room, both Mr. and Mrs. Hockley rose to their feet. As they approached the pair, Molly could see the emotional strain on both their faces. The wife was the first to step forward with an extended hand, which Molly took immediately with a strong grip. She was surprised to see Sherlock's hand ready to be grasped in turn.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hockley, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor Molly Hooper. We are obviously here to shed light on your son's abduction, but we need to ask you a couple of questions."

"Yes of course, Mr. Holmes. We'll answer any questions you have," she said in an anxious hope while twisting her fingers in front of her.

Romford Hockley was a bit more hard-boiled. His bloodshot hazel eyes had a flinty edge to them; devoid of the desperate panic in that of his wife. Molly however wasn't fooled. She could see the quickly deteriorating façade of strength giving way to an anguished fear.

She could also tell that this man was accustomed to calling the shots. Being at someone else's mercy was not his standard operating procedure.

She knew from experience that all people respond to tragedy and grief differently, in keeping with their personality and temperament. Mr. Hockley was trying his best to keep it together.

He briskly motioned for them to sit and they all moved over to an overstuffed grouping of chairs in front of the terrace that faced the exquisitely manicured gardens.

"First I think I need to start with the most obvious question and that is why did you wait 3 days to contact the police?"

Molly could see them both visibly stiffen. His eyes became ever more hardened, while her eyes shot down to her lap and frowned deeply.

"We were following his instructions…and those, Mr. Holmes were specifically to wait for further directives." Mr. Hockley's voice was low and measured.

"We waited, but there was never a second call. We were afraid, don't you see?" Beatrice Hockley squeezed her eyes shut as tears fell onto her folded hands. "Afraid that they'd hurt him. Why would they take him and never call back? It just doesn't make any sense."

Molly offered her a tissue as she wept silently into her hands.

"That is precisely the question, Mrs. Hockley. I would like to hear the first phone call…please."

Sherlock added with a brief smile.

Romford Hockley pulled out his phone, retrieved the message and handed it to the detective. He put it to his ear and listened to it multiple times with a detached expression. Without a word he returned the phone and placed his steepled his hands to his lips.

"How often did you see your son?"

The couple exchanged a pained look before Mrs. Hockley mumbled, "Not nearly enough."

"Weston has his own life. We came to an agreement when he turned 18 that as long as he kept his nose clean…no drugs, no breaking the law…that type of thing; he'd be allowed to continue to call 'Orchard's End' home and have a certain level of freedom. He could come and go as he pleased without checking in with us every minute."

Molly could see a flash of irritation come and go on his wife's face as he said those words.

"So I would assume you didn't see him every day then? she asked in a soft voice.

"No…no we didn't," Mrs. Hockley burst out in an urgency that revealed her unease with the current relationship with her son.

"I see. Would you know where your son spends the majority of his time then?" Sherlock asked.

Both of their faces became a bit reddened after a moment passed with no response, hers with a look of shame and his with a rising anger.

"Weston had become increasingly distant. We didn't always see eye to eye and I didn't hide the fact that I disapproved of some of his decisions," he said in a rough tone.

"What decisions exactly?" the detective questioned rapidly.

Looking rather put out by this query; Mr. Hockley clinched his jaw and looked testily back and forth between the pair.

"Dropping out of Uni for one," he huffed. Mrs. Hockley responded by bounding up from her chair and striding over to gaze out the veranda doors.

Molly wordlessly rose from her seat and walked over to stand next to the hurting woman. She gently touched her elbow and asked in a soft voice, "Could you give us the names of some of his friends? Even those from a couple years back. It may give us a hint as to where to start."

Mrs. Hockley glanced done at the soft-spoken young woman and gave her a sad sort of smile. "Of course, Doctor Hooper. I'll get those for you right now." The interview concluded with Beatrice Hockley leaving the drawing room, with her husband not far behind her.

By the time they were in a taxi on their way back to Baker Street, the duo had the names of 3 young men and the task of bringing to light who Weston Hockley really is.

…..

The next few days brought three interviews with young men who were fresh out of Uni, all in various stages of finding their way in the world. One just started at an entry level position with Accenture as a web tech developer. The other was continuing his studies in the science of global sustainability. While the third was readying himself for a yearlong cross-country trek of the US.

They had known each other from Sixth Form and were fairly close until they went off to Uni. Even though the friends seemed very diverse in their individualities and perspectives, all three where in perfect consensus however, when it came to one subject, that of course being, Weston Hockley.

The developing impression of discord in the Hockley home was reinforced from the stories of constant run-ins between the boy and his father. They never said that Romford Hockley was ever abusive or even unfair in their view…just more of a constant battle of wills. Perhaps it was just a simple case of being too similar.

Another point of interest was the mention of an additional friend, someone named Max Baines. According to the three, he was Weston's oldest friend having gone to primary school together. It seems though that Mr. Hockley had prohibited Weston from seeing Max after a scuffle with the law when they were 17 years old. Max was apparently very influential over Weston and they weren't surprised when he was excluded from their group. They believed however, that he continued to hang out with him behind the parents back in the beginning but heard less and less from Max as the years past and soon Weston himself started to withdraw from their social circle. By the time the young man dropped out of Uni, all ties were completely severed with his old friends.

…..

The next stage of their investigation had the duo going their separate ways. Molly took a trip back out to Orchard End while Sherlock pursued the club lead through his homeless network. He was sure that Nocturne had relocated several times since his association.

During her second visit to the big house Molly was able to dig deeper into the complex family dynamics. Mr. Hockley was at work dealing with an unexpected equipment failure. The pathologist took the opportunity to connect with Mrs. Hockley and find out a little more about Max Baines.

Over a cup of excellent tea the two perused one of the family photo albums. It would seem that the young men Molly talked with earlier that week were pretty accurate regarding their take on Weston and Max. She learned that Max came from old money and had almost a nonexistent relationship with his parents who jet-set around the world on a regular basis.

Boarding school would have been his fate early on if it hadn't been for his grandmother's resistance to the idea. Her influence in his younger years was the closest thing he ever had to a loving family environment. There were several photographs of this period, showing two happy and mischievous little boys doing normal little boy things.

Everything changed however soon after his grandmother's death when Max was only 13. Her stabilizing influence quickly evaporated leaving a disillusioned and hurting young man to act out his anger and frustrations unchecked.

Molly could see much sadness and regret in Mrs. Hockley's recollections. She continued with a progressively turbulent passage through the teen years; recalling the rising concern regarding Max's negative influence in Weston's life.

Circumstances soon took a more alarming turn when they came of age to drive. Max wasted no time acquiring his freedom on wheels in the form of a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 429 and by the time they were 17 years old their recklessness caught up with them and they were arrested for driving under the influence.

It was after this incident that Max Baines was no longer welcome at Orchard End and Weston was banned from any future contact with his friend. Mr. Hockley's already strained relationship with his son worsened from this point on.

With Weston's coming of age rapidly approaching, they came to a precarious agreement of sorts, outlining basic rules of behavior required for the continuance of an affluent lifestyle.

As the last page of the album turned, Mrs. Hockley recalled her observation regarding Weston's ensuing absence from their daily life. Sighing as she sat with a faraway look in her eyes.

"He just became more and more distant, even from me. We always had a fairly healthy relationship. He and his father never could see eye-to-eye and with Romford working all the time…"

The look of sadness turned darker with each passing moment until she stood and walked over to gaze out the window.

"He has always been a driven person…my husband. He always wanted us to have the best of everything. He didn't understand that the best thing for his family wasn't a thing at all. It was him…to have his attention, his love, his presence in our lives."

There was a sad bitterness in her voice that prompted Molly to rise and give the hurting woman a reassuring squeeze on the arm. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hockley," she said in a soft tone.

Her violet eyes met Molly's warm brown ones and she nodded with a sad smile.

"I've learned that we get one chance in life to cherish the gift of our loved ones. You are young my dear…if I could pass along one thing I've learned, it's not the value of a financial venture or a piece of real estate that matters most…it's the people in our lives; they are our most important investment.

The pathologist's eyes became wet from the words that were so filled with pain and regret.

She soon left Orchard End hoping her departing words to the woman were a source of comfort in spite of her current predicament.

On her ride back to Baker Street she reflected on what Mrs. Hockley said and on her own life. She thought of her own father and how blessed she was to be loved by such a wonderful man. He not only told her, but showed his love in countless ways, and even though he was taken from her way too soon, his influence in her life was still felt and hopefully demonstrated to the people she loved.

It takes time, courage and a healthy dose of self-denial to live this way, but it was worth it…they are worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Writingwife83...beta extraordinaire!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your humble patience pray,
> 
> Gently to hear, kindly to judge...for here there be Sherlolly! ;)

 

Chapter 15

"We'll need to do some field work, Molly."

"Um…like what exactly?"

"Nocturne." He held up the match book between two of his long fingers.

She stared at the man with a blank look. "The club?"

"Yes, the club."

"The club that's invitation only?"

The detective held up a small dark purple card with white lettering.

"Sherlock…"

"Molly…" he replied as he raised one eyebrow at her.

She stood facing the man as he lounged in his chair with his legs casually crossed.

_Just breathe._

Inhaling deeply before she dared to speak again, she exhaled in a controlled even breath and slowly crossed her arms in front of her.

_Why do I feel like I'm going to lose this one?_

"Okay, you need to tell me what we're up against here, Sherlock," she said in the sternest tone she could muster.

"It's your typical hard core London club scene, Molly. It's underground for a reason."

She sighed. "Drugs than."

"Ye-s, we won't be doing any…if that's what you're worried about," he said as he rolled his eyes at her. "Anyway, this particular club consists of much more."

"More?" Molly's brow knitted together. _Why do I not like the sound of this?_

"Yes, though I'm not entirely sure if our Weston Hockley was involved with the…'more' part…yet."

Molly's frown deepened as she shook her head slightly. "I'm not following…"

"That's all right," he said as he stood up and stretched out his back. "Just follow my lead,"

Sherlock walked past her into the kitchen to make some tea.

She looked down at the table where the matchbook and card lay. "But you only have one invitation. How…?"

"You're my plus one, of course."

"Plus…one?"

"Yes, Molly…my date."

Her eyes snapped shut before she started chewing the inside of her cheek.

_Okay, deep breathing…now would be good._

"Sherlock…" Her voice was nervous but had the edge of warning before she continued. "I don't think it's a good idea to keep me in the dark."

"Mm…there seems to be some degree of poetic justice in that statement, Molly," he said looking over with a mischievous air.

Her brief expression of confusion morphed into one of exasperation before letting out a huff of annoyance. "I'm serious, Sherlock," she said as her posture stiffened in resolve. She stood there, watching and waiting patiently.

He looked over with a steady assessing gaze all the while finishing their tea. The sight of which served as a glaring reminder that the usefulness of the man's crystalline eyes lay only in their power to weaken her knees.

With the two hot mugs he walked over to where the petite pathologist stood. He raised the steaming cuppa to just under her nose with an expression that could only mean that he wanted something.

"Molly?" he said in his lower than usual, velvety baritone.

_Ugh…here we go._

She took the cup from his hands (careful to avoid away unnecessary physical contact) and looked up into his imploring eyes.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked in a soft innocent tone.

She closed her eyes in surrender, as the last of the fight drained away with the slump of her shoulders.

With a tired heavy sigh, she flopped into her chair before taking a sip from the warm brew.

She could see the small smirk of victory on the detectives face without even looking at him.

"Fine. What's the plan then?"

He placed a large gold colored bag beside her in the chair before he settled himself in the seat opposite her.

"What's this?" she said peeking into the bag with curiosity.

"The appropriate attire," he said into his mug.

Molly looked up through her lashes and then down again. "For an underground club," she remarked.

"Don't worry Molly, it's nothing…inappropriate. Just something that will enable you to blend," he said as he drained the rest of his tea.

Getting up, he passed her and put the cup into the sink before turning and looking in her direction.

"I'm going to change my clothes and I recommend that you do the same," was the last thing he said before entering his room and closing the door behind him.

…..

She stood in the loo, staring at the bag of clothes she was supposed to wear…to blend, in an underground London drug den.

This was definitely not her comfort zone.

Her typical social setting was "blending" with the cadavers that she examined. They didn't care much if she sported her layers of flowery blouses and cherry embellished thrift shop jumpers; no judgement there.

_This is what I signed up for right? This is his work. Places like Orchard End and Nocturne are all part of the package deal, isn't it? Get over it Hooper. It's only clothes._

Locking eyes with her reflection, she let out a shaky sigh. Opening the bag she looked at its contents.

_Huh._

It wasn't as bad as she imagined it to be. No racy red spandex tube dress that just barely covered the essentials. Instead Molly pulled out a black silk Halston dress that fit and flared into a swingy, rather flirty shirt. The bodice was cut in a lovely understated style reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn with its split neckline and cap sleeves. It had a classic A-line silhouette but with the modern edge of its Halston construction.

She opened the simple ribbon lacing in the back and slipped it over her head. The softness of the silk slid over her form sending small shivers over her skin. The lacing sat rather low but she was able to tie up most of the back so it fit perfectly on her small frame. The hemline was a good 4 inches above her knee, which was shorter then she was used to, but somehow the length suited her petite figure.

Looking down in the bag once more; her mouth hung open as she slowly pulled out a pair of black suede Miu Miu thigh high boots with a 3" heel, along with a lovely pair of nude silk stockings to complete the look.

_Oh, my._

She dutifully put on the rest of the ensemble and looked at the woman staring back at her. It was beautiful, classic yet edgy…and very expensive she was sure. It made her new orange coat seem sad and silly, all at once.

_Uh, oh…the coat._

As she walked out of the loo she saw Sherlock standing before her swigging a bottle of water…totally transformed.

He wore a fitted dark grey Belstaff chirton henley thermal with a pair of black APC slim straight leg jeans. Rather than his signature coat he wore a black Boss Orange 'Jumahr' leather field jacket with black John Varvatos 'Bowery' button boots.

She was literally speechless.

As she stood in the doorway of the loo he turned in her direction. Taking one final swallow he recapped the bottle and raised an eyebrow.

"All set then?" he asked.

"Um…Yes...I mean, no, um…" squeezing her eyes shut, she paused to gather her flustered thoughts.

"Almost…I uh, need you to do up the rest of my laces…can't tie off the bow." Putting down his bottle he opened his arms and motioned with his hands. "Come here then, Molly."

She quickly walked over and turned around before feeling his cool hands on both her shoulders. She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers travel down her back to feel the pattern of the laced ribbon. He tugged gently as his fingers slowly worked their way up her back. She felt the dress become tighter around her middle and chest. "Not too taut is it?" he asked in a low voice.

"No." She could feel her cheeks starting to burn but her voice was steady in response.

"Do you like it?" he inquired with a hint of a smile.

Molly looked at the floor while the corners of her mouth broke into a small smile. "It's…not what I expected."

"No?" he asked cracking a smirk "Do I want to know what you expected then?"

He could feel the rumble of her low chuckle as he finished tying the bow that rested just under her shoulder blades.

"How do you have your hair, Molly?"

"Oh, I didn't even think about it!" Her hands instinctively went up to the high bun that she'd been wearing all day. "I've had it up since I dried it this morning."

Sherlock slid his hands up the nape of her neck to work on untwisting the bun. His touch brought a shock of electricity through her body making her tremble. She closed her eyes as every muscle went rigid from the effort of staying poised. The feeling of his fingers in her hair brought goosebumps to her skin and she bite her lip hard to stay silent.

As he released Molly's long locks, he ran his fingers through them to loosen the twist and the tresses fell down her back in lovely cascading waves. While lightly grazing her skin several times he couldn't help but notice how supple her skin felt and how silky soft her hair was.

The detective frowned as he realized that he didn't want to sever the contact. It was his legs that separated the two as he took two steps backward and away, allowing the last of the sleek strands to slid through his grasp.

Molly's eyes opened and she turned to see him with his brow drawn together deep in thought.

"Is anything wrong, Sherlock?"

The concern in her voice roused him and he turned to walk into the sitting room. "Perfectly fine, Molly…we need to finish our primping though. I'm assuming you want to put on some make-up fitting for a night out on the town."

"Uh, yeah…sure, I'll do that now." She took one last watchful glance in his direction before returning to the mirror to finish up.

…..

In the end Molly didn't have to worry about her mismatching coat because Sherlock had helped her into a lovely black wool/cashmere and suede swing coat that echoed the lines in her dress.

As she sat next to Sherlock speeding in a taxi to London's night life, she was sure that she couldn't be more ready for a night clubbing then she was at that very moment.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew...alright-y then!
> 
> Hope that makes up for the previous sherlolly-lite chapter.
> 
> That darn casework seems to get in the way! ;)
> 
> And as always my wholehearted thank you to the lovely Writingwife83!


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

It had been almost ten years since the detective had been at Nocturne. It started in a basement of an unmarked warehouse in the middle of Shoreditch.

He was a young twenty something and paying his pennants after being caught in a rather large drug bust. After deducing a room of his fellow felons and a handful of officers, the last one being a Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, the call came in for Sherlock Holmes' release with conditions of full cooperation with the Yard.

A particularly slippery gangster from Plumbstead had evaded arrest for years, but they had a titillating case building against him with the help of a half dozen deep cover officers. The targeted bust and hopeful capture of the drug ring and its leader was at an underground club called Nocturne.

When three of the officers missed their schedules rendezvous, Lestrade suggested bringing in Sherlock. Desperate to make the bust and to reestablish contact with their missing people, they reluctantly sent the young man in. Within a week he had provided them with the missing information of suppliers and transport to insure the eventual bust at Nocturne and the location of the officers who were unfortunately slain as a result of an informant's betrayal.

Though unofficial, his success insured Sherlock's continued involvement in particularly sensitive and baffling cases, always under the supervision of Sergeant Lestrade.

Over the years the detective continued to prove his worth and with Lestrade's move up to DI, the opportunities increased.

In spite of the notorious bust (or perhaps because of it) Nocturne continued to thrive as an underground club, popping up around London through hired venues. They had kept their noses clean and developed a name that drew an increasingly affluent crowd, which in turn vastly improved its locale; the latest taking place in central London.

As the taxi continued along Northumberland Ave and then turning left along Victoria Embankment, Molly became more and more confused.

"Sherlock…I thought we were heading for the East end?"

"Mm…yes, we were. Nowadays it's become more up-market; apparently things have changed quite a bit. It'll be interesting to see however, if one particular facet of the club is still intact."

"And are you planning on letting me in on this "particular facet" any time soon, Sherlock?" Molly asked with just a little bit of cheek.

"When and if I need to, Molly. It may be a thing of the past, like much of its edginess, I'm afraid."

Lack of edge wasn't bothering her too much, especially while dressed in such exclusive apparel.

Her eyes grew huge as they slowed while just passing Somerset House and stopped behind a backup of cars being valeted at an entrance under Waterloo Bridge.

"Um…Sherlock?" Molly's mouth hung open as they stopped just past the queue.

"We're here, Molly. I'll need your hand, obviously" With that, Sherlock once again handed her the fare and left Molly for the sidewalk. When she joined him, she placed her hand firmly in his and waited.

She could see that he was busy processing his surroundings. The sounds and smells were interesting…even to her unenhanced senses.

Patiently she watched him as his eyes darted here and there, his sightless gaze falling somewhere towards the ground. Sherlock leaned to the side, close to her face.

"What do you see?"

In his ear, she described their location as dimly lit, since they were literally standing under Waterloo Bridge. There was one simple sconce that just barely illuminated the entrance where a smartly dressed bouncer stood.

As the double doors opened per admittance, a burst of light and sound assaulted her and Sherlock crinkled his nose before leaning over and said, "I can't say I missed the battering of my tympanic membrane."

Molly smiled up at him, not at all surprised that he didn't hold much appreciation for the driving EDM sounds that trended the night life in London.

As they moved up to just two couples behind, she tippy- toed up to his ear and quipped with a grin, "Not to your musical tastes then?"

"I find it's only redeeming quality in that it's quite danceable," Sherlock stated in her ear with a smirk.

And it was then when it dawned on her.

_Oh…Dear…Lord! …DANCING!_

In less than a minute they were next up in the queue and Sherlock frowned in her direction. "What's wrong?"

"What…? Oh, it's nothing," she answered back in an unintentionally high voice.

"Molly…" he warned.

"Sherlock…I didn't say anything was wrong!" she said grimacing at his perspicacity.

"Your breathing pattern has changed and your palm is becoming sweaty and now that you've spoken, I hear it in your voice." His eyes narrowed at her just before the bouncer asked for their invite. He passed the card and the door opened to admit them to all of what Nocturne had to offer.

As they entered, their coats were taken by a women dressed in silver and another gentleman in white offered them an array of colorful concoctions in tall slender glasses.

"Um…drinks, Sherlock…are we going to…?" she hesitated, eyeing the tray in front of her.

"Take two of whatever you like…yes," he said with an impatient wave of his hand. "I need your visualization, Molly."

Grabbing two electric blue drinks, she stood looking all around, trying not to appear too in awe of her surroundings.

She described Nocturne as an Amphitheatre type space that divided the inner and outer spaces with dark paneled wood arches that flanked all four sides. As you walk in, directly opposite was a wide center staircase that split as it led up to the mezzanine level with ornate iron railings that completely surrounded the center lower level.

It was a naturally dark expanse that allowed the slowly morphing LEDs to pack a visual punch. The up and down lightning changed from complimentary colors like jewel tone blues and oranges to rich purples and yellows.

"Well, they've definitely moved up in the classes," Sherlock scoffed, looking totally unimpressed.

"Oh, here…did you want this?" Molly took his fingers and gently brought them to one of the glasses.

Seizing it, he took a sniff before sipping the garish liquid. "Blue Curacao, Peach Schnaps, Vodka…citrus, of course and…lime soda."

Molly rolled her eyes and took a sip herself. "Mm…yummy. What's it called?"

A corner of Sherlock's mouth cracked a smile. "You probably wouldn't want to know, actually. Anyway, I think it best we sit and observe for a while, don't you? With not too many of these to start," he said raising his drink and taking hold of her small hand.

She glanced up at him with a confused look before squinting back down at her glass. "Okay. Where would you like to go?" she asked, taking another sip.

"You lead the way, Molly. Remember, we're blending."

So she steered them through the dancing throngs over to one of the small round tables that flanked the walls under the arches and hunched close to hear each other over the music which was loud enough to feel the beat resonate in their chests.

Once seated the pathologist continued to describe the scene in greater detail, from the club itself to the people around them; their ages generally ranging in their twenties and thirties, all of which were very well-to-do, judging by their apparel. It was becoming more crowded by the minute and Molly couldn't help but wonder what their next move was.

"We're sitting in what used to be the Kingsway tram's south entrance and if I'm not mistaken there should be a door on the wall behind the staircase."

She craned her neck to try to get a visual but the masses were obscuring her view. "Sorry, Sherlock…I can't quite make that out from here."

"That's all right, it's unnecessary to confirm what I already know is true. The question really is… are they still embroiled in their ventures of an earlier period? That is what we need to find out."

"But how?" She almost shouted in his ear as the music seemed to just ramp up in energy and volume.

"There would be two tell-tale signs Molly, and unless you can make that visual assessment from here, we'll need to go dancing." The detective rose to his feet after that last declaration and offered a hand.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silent love is calling faith*To shatter me through your hallways
> 
> Into echoes you can feel*And rehearse the way you heal
> 
> Make them dance*Just like you
> 
> Cause you make me move*Yeah you always make me go
> 
> I'll run away with your foot steps*I'll build a city that dreams for two
> 
> And if you lose yourself*I will find you

Chapter 17

Molly looked up at him in alarm and then to the jam-packed dance floor. She slowly took Sherlock's hand and rose tentatively to her feet.

"Um…I have to let you know…that…well; I've…I've never been a very good dancer," Molly stammered in his ear, as they headed towards the middle of the pulsating mob.

Taking hold of both his hands she turned around and placed them on her shoulders, leading him single file with small steps. She managed to safely navigate them to the center of the floor just as the DJ began playing a mix of Zedd, ironically the more recent EDM that she was familiar with. Satisfied with their location, Molly turned back around, still clasping Sherlock's forearms. He brought his hands around her back, lightly resting them on her shoulder blades. Her hands naturally slipped around his waist and she looked up just in time to see him lean down and position his lips just over her left ear.

"I'm confident enough in my dancing abilities Molly, to adequately guide your movements. Just follow my lead. You'll be looking for any signs of facial injuries…both new and healing lacerations on at least 3 of more males." He then stepped in and closed the small gap that had separated their bodies and started purposefully swaying in rhythm to the beat. His right hand slid down to the small of her back firmly sustaining their embrace.

Molly tried to focus on his words through all the noise, their snug proximity and the sensation of his warm breath on her neck.

_Facial injuries…3 or more males, right...wait…what?_

She turned her head to look into the detectives face and realized immediately just how close they were to each other. She swallowed thickly, her gaze instantly dropped at his mouth which couldn't have been more than an inch away. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to ignore the feeling of his rocking hips as they swayed in time to Zedd's Find You. Mentally shaking herself, she opened her eyes and leaned back to his ear. "Did you say 3 or more males with facial injuries?"

He nodded with a smirk as he leaned forward taking her with him. They took a step to the side, then back with a slow twist of their upper bodies. As they continued moving to the music she realized just how good of a dancer he was, and she was… because of him.

_Focus, Hopper…damn it!_

With great effort Molly tried to fix her attention on anyone other than the man that was in her arms. First looking to her right, she scanned the faces that orbited around hers. When finding nothing out of the ordinary she turned to the left. Due to her position, her view was extremely limited and she told him so.

"Easily remedied, Molly," was his only response before rotating her so that he was behind her.

Enfolded her once again in his arms he bent slightly forward, so his face was nestled against her ear. She could feel her heart rate rise and she instinctively tilted her head to allow him more access to her neck. "Better?" he said, sending shivers up her spine.

She nodded as she began scanning the now panoramic view before her. With her senses beginning to reel, she leaned back into him for greater support and she immediately felt him tighten his hold on her.

It felt wonderful.

She didn't know if she'd ever find herself in this position again, so she allowed herself the moment of pure bliss. Just as she was about to close her eyes in contentment…she saw him. Her movements braced as her eyes shot open with alertness. Feeling the shift in her body language and he inclined his ear in expectancy.

"I see one…about 2 meters to our left."

A bit stunned she continues to look around her. Sure enough there was another to her far right, almost over her shoulder. She turned around in Sherlock's arms and reported that she spotted one more. The look in the detective's eyes became one of exhilaration and he began circling them so that her line of sight would be a complete 360. Just as they turned toward the staircase Molly caught a glimpse of two more just emerging from the darkness behind. The startling differences from the others were the apparent freshness of the cuts. The men skirted the sides of the room and sat at the bar that lined the west wall.

"Two more Sherlock…they seem to have newly acquired injuries. They came from behind the steps and now they're at the bar."

"I'm suddenly very thirsty, Molly. How about you?" he said loudly with a mischievous grin.

Intrigued and more confused than ever, she led them off the dance floor, but not without a struggle surrounded by such a crush of humanity.

"I wish you had brought your white cane, Sherlock. It would come in handy just about now." she shouted, as they neared the long bar that was literally one long glowing light. They settled themselves only a couple of meters from the two men who were huddled in a rather animated conversation.

Getting two waters, she turned to look at the wall where the mysterious door was supposed to be, but could see nothing but the same wood paneling that adorn the arches.

"I see no door, Sherlock," she said in his ear as she pressed the cool glass of water in his hand.

"There must be. It's probably just concealed," he said before taking a long sip.

As Molly observed closer she agreed that there could definitely be a hidden door in the paneling. "Now what?" she asked resting her back against the bar opposite Sherlock as he leaned forward with his elbows on the illuminated surface. The light cast an almost ethereal intensity to his features, contrasting against the angles of his cheekbones and the luminosity of the shifting color of his eyes.

She stood mesmerized for a moment, until he inclined his face to her ear. "Take a walk over to the back wall. If there's an entrance, there will be a watch. Let's see how close you can get before you're diverted. In the interim, I'll try to get to know our two friends over here. I don't believe it will be too difficult, they seem rather…zealous. "

Molly took a quick glance down the bar to see them order a second drink as their voices became increasingly brazen. She gave Sherlock a parting squeeze on the forearm before moving toward the darkened vicinity in question.

With the glass in her hand she meandered past a number of couples taking advantage of the shadowy area while surreptitiously looking for indications of ingress to…something. Molly had a natural innocuousness about her that she hoped would aid in the task, as she leisurely wandered along the corridor.

Eventually she approached a large man which when she first laid eyes on him became convinced he was the guard. He watched as she came closer and he looked her up and down, quite reminiscent of the way Sherlock did when deducing her. The thought brought a fond smile to her face which resulted in the muscular sentry grinning in her direction.

_Oh, boy._ She knew from the stare he was giving her that if she chose to chat him up she could, but convinced that she found what she was looking for, Molly didn't see the point. So she passed him looking into her glass with a small shy smile on her lips, all the while feeling his eyes upon her until she made the right turn that led to the arch opposite from where Sherlock stood, now totally engrossed in conversation with the two banged up gents.

She decided to circle around the outer edge, enjoying the music, although she knew her ears would be ringing by the time they finally departed the club. She took the opportunity to continue studying the people around her and by the time she rounded back to the bar she counted 3 more males with minor lacerations to the face.

Molly hesitated as she approached the bar, not sure if she should interrupt or not. In the end she supposed she may as well continue with the cover of being Sherlock's plus one. Taking a deep breath she slid next to the detective and looped her arm through his as he leaned casually against the bar with one leg on a stool.

"Hi," she said with a smile as she looked up at Sherlock and then at the two men.

Without missing a beat, his right hand came up to clasp hers; "Hey," he said with a smirk before leaning over to give her a soft kiss on the cheek. Butterflies immediately flooded her stomach.

"I was just chatting with these two gentlemen about the last time I was at Nocturne. Apparently not much has changed," Sherlock said with a chuckle, which prompted the two others to join him.

"Oh…" Molly smiled, trying not to appear as oblivious as she felt. But before she could feel the need to make small talk, Sherlock was shaking hands and making their farewells.

"Perhaps we'll bump into each other soon," he said in an uncharacteristically chummy tone.

Molly had just put down her glass before he took a firm hold of her hand and gave her a slight tug that indicated their departure. She smiled and gave a small nod before weaving them through the crowds once again.

"We're done here Molly…time to go," he breathed in her ear.

Before long they were clad in their coats and stood outside the underpass of Waterloo Bridge in the brisk night air.

…..

As the taxi returned them to Baker Street, Sherlock sat deep in thought as London's city lights played across his face. She could tell that he was deliberating something of considerable consequence judging from his expression. She started feeling uneasy but she wasn't sure why. Looking back to her own window she sat in silence the rest of the way, content to watch the city's night life flash by her.

…..

"Yes, Mycroft…that's what I need. N-oo…you heard right." Sherlock eyes rolled as he spun in a slow circle before landing in his chair. He leaned down with one hand to remove his boots, careful placing them on the right side of him.

Molly followed suit with her own boots, resigned to making it up the stairs to John's old room this time around; she was just starting to feel the exhaustion setting in.

"Do you doubt me, _brother mine_?" Sherlock sneered as his eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Molly quietly settled in her seat as she watched the detective verbally spar with his older (and she wondered in this case…wiser) brother.

"If I wasn't sure, Mycroft would I ask you at all? This is the fastest way. If I'm to harbor any hope at all of recovering Weston Hockley alive it needs to be the quickest possible way."

Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes once more and rocked his head from side to side in a mocking way as he listened to Mycroft's response.

Molly tried to hide her amusement at the immature jest of his brother, knowing that Mycroft was probably the voice of reason on the matter.

His countenance suddenly turned dark as he continued to listen and he began fidgeting agitatedly in his seat.

"Alright fine, But I must have it right way. I need answers by tomorrow," he barked and snapped off the phone in frustration.

There was silence for a couple of minutes before Molly cleared her throat in an effort to signal her presence. He continued to sit with his hands steepled in front of him deep in thought.

The next moment however brought a gradual change to the detectives eyes…an expression that fed her earlier unnamed anxiety. A slow smile spread across his handsome features while a frown deepened on the face of his pathologist.

"The game, my dear Doctor Hooper…is on."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta Writingwife83 for taking the time! You're awesome, as always!

Chapter 18

It was a fight club.

An underground club within a club. Molly had her suspicions that it was _something_ along those lines. Let's just say, well…it's not her area. She knew Sherlock though, and that's what worried her. He's no doubt the most stubborn person she was acquainted with and he was convinced that this club held a clue to Weston Hockley's whereabouts.

She also knew that the detective would take a great deal of risk. He'd of course regard it as _calculated_ risk, at all times considering the balance of probability. And it's not as if she doubted his capabilities. What she was unsure about was his objectivity regarding his limitations. He'd been through so much. Having been forced to adapt to this 'new normal' in order to get his life back. How desperate was he for success? How far will he go to prove not only to others, but even more importantly, to himself that he was still capable?

It made her all the more apprehensive. There were few who she trusted more when it came to the science of cognitive deliberation. But these were foreign waters, like he once said…extraordinary circumstances and it was a rarity to witness the great Sherlock Holmes functioning in anything remotely akin to self-doubt.

In spite of the pathetically short night of sleep, Molly was up a little after eight and decided it best she head home to check in on Toby and sort through her neglected post. If truth be told, the pathologist just needed to decompress…to sort herself out a bit.

When she came downstairs there was no sign of Sherlock. Taking the opportunity to make a clean get away, she greeted Mrs. Hudson and left word that she'd return in the afternoon.

Once she was home again she enjoyed a much needed break from the consulting detective. After catching up on some bills and a little laundry, Molly sat in her dad's favorite sweater, curled up on the couch with Toby, with a soothing cup of hot chai and a good book.

…..

The sound of her phone jolted her awake from the deep sleep she had drifted into. A tad bewildered, she looked around to find her cat had wedged himself halfway between the couch and her underarm with his head resting just under her chin. She smiled at the rumble of his contented purr before shifting to grab her phone.

"Sorry, Toby," she whispered, squinting at the phone, while rubbing one eye. _Sherlock…calling, not texting…uh,oh._

"Um…Hi," she answered cautiously.

"Where the hell are you Molly Hooper? The afternoon will soon be evening. It _is_  quite helpful to glance at a clock at least once when you're scheduling your day."

Molly rolled her eyes and then froze when she saw the time. "It's almost ten to five!" she gawked, not believing her eyes.

"Yes, Molly, and you're…not…here."

"Sorry; I must have fallen asleep," she mumbled, staggering from the coziness of her cat and couch as she got to her feet.

"Brilliant deduction, Doctor. Will you be gracing me with your presence or will I be solo this evening?" the detective said in a most tetchy manner.

"Um…yeah, yeah…just, uh, give me a couple of minutes to get myself together, Sherlock." She frowned as she spun about looking for her shoes, feeling totally disoriented.

"Fine, in exactly two minutes I'll be downstairs waiting on the pavement." With that he hung up, leaving Molly scrambling to feed Toby and to run out the door just barely in her shoes and coat, hailing a taxi.

…..

A little less than eight minutes later, the slightly frazzled pathologist arrived in front of 221B. She saw Sherlock's head swivel as the taxi slowed and stopped a meter or two past him.

"I'm here, Sherlock," she called out, after opening the car door. With his cane he walked over tapping the curb and the taxi; successfully navigating his way. She slid over as he gracefully entered the vehicle after refolding the cane.

"Victoria Embankment, under Waterloo Bridge please," he stated as he settled himself beside her.

Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out a card and handed it to her. It was bright orange with the word NOCTURNE printed in bold black lettering.

"Where did you get…?" she asked as she blinked in surprise.

"Mycroft," he interrupted impatiently.

"I'm assuming it's an invitation to the fight club," she said, before returning the small square to his hand.

"Mm…" was the detectives only reply, as he sat staring straight ahead.

"Sherlock…what was it that you agreed to yesterday…with your brother?"

"To take you with me."

There was a brief pause before Molly's expression turned somber. "I see," she responded in a quiet voice. She turned her head to face the window.

"I take it then that you'd prefer to be…on your own?" She spoke softly but with an acidity that was unmistakable.

He spared her a quick glance before retorting, "I have stated before that one mother is enough."

Molly frowned.

"You didn't seem to be bothered by my _mothering_ last night." She turned back to the detective to gauge his reaction.

He didn't have one; they sat in a strained silence the remainder of the trip.

…..

Arriving a little past five there wasn't a queue of cars or club-goers to contend with, just the rush of traffic along Victoria Embankment as the taxi slowed to a stop. Sherlock exited immediately. Unfolding his cane he waited until Molly stood beside him.

"I will do the talking, Molly. Unlike the first invitation, it's generally frowned upon to bring a… companion." Sherlock's stony expression softened a bit as he glanced down in her direction. "I expect there may be some resistance, not only to your presence but to my…disadvantage."

"But Sherlock…all we're going to do is ask some questions, right?" Her brow knitted in confusion as she looked into the detective's eyes.

He tried his best to retain an impassive appearance. But he also knew who he was dealing with. He no longer underestimated the small pathologist's razor-sharp acuity…especially when it came to him. He needed to get them inside, where the opportunity to ask unimpeded questions were diminished.

"The door, Molly…if you please?" Sherlock asked in the gentlest tone he could muster.

Molly studied his face for a moment. This was proving to be more convoluted then she had feared. She considered her options. In spite of his promise to Mycroft, Molly knew that Sherlock would continue with the investigation, with or without her. She also knew that his life, if deprived of her assistance would become much more problematic. Could she really turn her back on him now? All her intuitions were warning of imminent danger, while her heart was telling her to have courage.

The detective stood motionless waiting with patience quite uncharacteristic to his norm. A moment later he felt a whoosh of air while hearing the unmistakable scrape of a steel door opening. His arm came up high to grip the heavy metal and he arched his body to give Molly space to walk past him.

"After you," he said with a small smile.

With a clinched jaw, she released a long deep sigh through her nose before bypassing the threshold.

She was immediately taken by the stark difference from the previous night. Absent were the morphing LED's and deafening EDM. Instead the only illumination came from the recessed lights and ambient floor and table lamps that dotted the cavernous room. The sound of silky jazz filled the shadowy space making the effect somewhat relaxing.

The only soul she could see was the solitary figure behind the lit up bar along the left corner of the back wall.

"What a difference a day makes," she muttered as her eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings.

"The ambiance parallels the shift in musical styles, I take it," Sherlock quipped as he followed her inside, the door closing heavily behind them.

"Uh, yeah…you could definitely say that," she said with a smirk. She mentioned the lone bartender after briefly describing the space.

"Let's precede to the rear then, Molly," the detective responded, firmly taking her hand while tucking his cane discreetly to his side.

As they approached the bar, the gentleman looked up from the bottles he was stocking and smiled.

"What can we do for you?" he asked in a cordial tone.

Sherlock produced his orange card and placed it on the bar in front of them. "And perhaps two lagers as well."

The man's eyebrows shot up at the sight of the card, before looking back at the pair. He stared at Molly for a couple of seconds before his gaze shifted to Sherlock's face. His eyes narrowed a bit as he studied the man who didn't quite make eye contact. He then saw the white cane which confirmed his suspicion.

He opened his mouth slightly, looking a bit befuddled. Taking the invitation in his hand, he examined it closer, turning it over to see the back.

Putting it in his shirt pocket, the barkeep turned to grab two glasses in one hand and two beers in the other and carefully placed them on the bar, opening and pouring each one.

"Please enjoy your beer while I see to the other matter," he replied in a neutral tone. Flashing a brief smile, he turned and walked toward the back wall becoming completely obscured from view.

Molly could hear some murmuring voices just before the sound of a door opening and closing.

She glanced down at the beer in front of her which suddenly became quite appealing. Taking three long sips from the chilled glass she glanced at the man beside her. If he felt any sort of anxiety regarding their situation the detective hide it to perfection.

She watched as his hand slowly slide along the glowing surface until he touched the base of the glass. He took an easy swig of the lager before returning it to the bar in front of him.

"Sherlock, I know you're purposely keeping something from me. Now that we're here and I'm obviously going along with whatever you're planning, I want to know what I'm getting myself into." Molly spoke in a firm and steady voice as her fingers traced the rim of the smooth glass.

Knowing that this moment was eminent he settled himself in the stool, leaning the cane against his thigh and took in a deep breath. When Molly did the same, he leaned his elbows on the bar and folded his hands around the lager as he considered his words before beginning.

"The rules to Fight Club are very few and simple, Molly…and fairly universal, it would seem. First and second (he said with a smirk) is that you don't talk about it. Its preservation lies in its secrecy. Unless I'm a member there will be no hope in getting any information from these people. And as this is the one and only clue to our mysterious Mr. Hockley, we need to follow it…wherever it may lead us."

Molly looked at him with an intense gaze. "So what's the rule that I'll not like, Sherlock?"

He looked at her and straightened his back as he shifted to face her more fully.

"When you join…you must fight. No exception."

Molly stared at him for a second, processing what he just told her.

He heard her stand to her feet, which prompted him to follow suit. They stood toe to toe in silence. He could feel the tension mounting by the second and he readied himself for her response.

"You're blind, Sherlock. Forgive me, but it seems that you need to be reminded." Molly's voice was low and threatening.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stooped closer to the pathologist. "Luthais Manning is also blind, or have _you_ forgotten. He was also Judo Champion of the World two years in a row, as well as Gold medalist in the Paralympic games."

"Did he fight against sighted opponents or blind ones, Sherlock?" she rebutted, trying hard to maintain her antagonism.

"Both," he uttered with growing menace as he leaned even closer now, towering over her less than a foot away.

She saw the fire in his eyes as she glared up at him. She was so unaccustomed to challenging him, especially when it came to his extraordinary abilities. These past months have been about helping him and doing her best to build up his confidence. Now she found herself standing there attempting to do the opposite.

The realization was like a slap in the face.

She felt her eyes become wet as she looked down at her feet. Releasing a shaky breath, Molly looked back into the eyes of the detective and swallowed thickly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered in a trembling voice.

Sherlock's eyes grew large as he heard the change in her tone and she could see his tension visibly ease.

Blinking at her twice before glancing at his feet, he took a deep breath before settling back into his seat.

Molly joined him for a second time and took another sip of beer. They sat in silence for a moment until Sherlock cleared his throat.

She glanced up at him, feeling a rush of emotions she'd label as affection, protectiveness and fear.

"I can't really help you in this, Sherlock," she said, as her anxiety grew with each passing moment.

"Yes, you can." He took out a cropped wallet sized scan of Weston. "If I do well, I have no doubt that our reception will become much more welcoming," he said with a half-smile. "When it does, start asking questions, nothing too obvious. Just show a general interest. Since you'll in all probability be the only woman present you'll be rather…popular." He smirked as he said this, but Molly could see something else in his expression that she couldn't quite name.

"They will most likely respond favorably when appealing to the male ego. Try to get them chatty when it comes to their past exploits. Also, there are often strong family ties…brothers, cousins. Start bragging about a cousin that was in a fight club, not knowing of course which one. Put this in your wallet. You may get some questions yourself; if you do, pull out this old photo. Rarely are full names used, most often just first names or complete aliases, so the picture will prove invaluable."

"What about you? I mean…what are…we?" Molly asked, feeling a bit of color rise on her cheeks.

Sherlock smirked. "Best to stick close to the truth, I think. Especially if their interest in you encourages looser tongues." He looked down and fiddled with his cane. "You're a good friend who's been helping me adjust to a life of blindness. I will of course play up my past at Nocturne 10 years ago and my desire to prove myself now."

"What if they won't let me in?" The prospect just dawning on her.

Glancing up again, his brow furrowed. "That is a distinct possibility, yes." He took another swallow of his lager. "If that does indeed happen, this may drag out another day or two; prolonging the means of gathering data." They both frowned at the notion.

"Do I…wait for you?" Molly asked timidly, feeling a bit unsure of her usefulness at that point.

Sherlock considered her question as he straightened in his stool. Letting his fingers trail away from his glass, his hand glided across the bar and settled on the handle of his cane once more.

Still facing forward, he shot a quick glance in Molly's direction before his eyes returned in front of him.

"It would be…preferable if you…waited, yes." She could see that he struggled to reveal even that.

She smiled down into her beer. "Then I'll wait…of course," she said with a quick nod of her head.

His posture relaxed a bit as he placed his cane on the bar and leaned on his elbows, grabbing his drink with both hands. "Good," he said into his glass before taking a slow sip.

"Just promise me one thing, Molly," he asked, suddenly turning his head with a raised eyebrow.

Raising her glass to her mouth, she froze just before it reached her lips. "What's that?" inquiring with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

"If you sit for hours at the bar, waiting for my return…make sure you can still walk out of here. I'm not sure I'll be in any condition to carry you home." Sherlock smirked as he downed the rest of his beer.

...

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Stand Down: Type of traditional bare knuckle fighting where the aspect of maneuvering around the ring is removed, leaving only the less nuanced aspects of punching and 'taking' punches.

Chapter 19

 

Two gentlemen in addition to the bartender appeared from the shadows and converged on the pair. Molly recognized one of them as the man who stood guard from the night before. All had expressions of wary curiosity. As they approached, the man took a double take when glancing at Molly. He obviously recognized her as well.

Walking behind the bar so he stood directly in front of them both, he leaned forward on his elbows looking at them in turn. The gesture was both friendly and interrogating all at once.

"My name is Collin," he announced with a smile, looking from one face to the other, but landed back on Sherlock with a probing stare. He was average height, perhaps an inch or two shorter than the detective. His hair was buzzed extremely short, probably to minimize a receding hairline, although Molly could still make out the tinge of ginger along his temples.

"My name is Will. Nice to meet you, Collin," the detective replied as he extended his hand.

Collin looked at it for a second before taking a firm hold and shaking it deliberately. After releasing Sherlock's hand Collin glanced at the petite women at his right.

"This is my good friend, Molly. She's been a great help since I lost my sight some months back."

The pathologist shook his hand also, with the same shy smile from the previous night.

"Nice to meet you Molly," he said as his smile became a little wider. After releasing her hand, his attention turned to Sherlock. "So…" he whipped out the invitation and placed it on the bar like a playing card. "How do you know us?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"I was a member, mm…ten or so years ago, now," Sherlock said conversationally as he leaned forward doubling his arms, somewhat matching Collins movements.

The man's brows shot up in surprise. "Ah, I see," he said, glancing down at the cane that rested on the bar. "And you're…wanting back in, is that it?"

Molly watched as Sherlock lowered his face toward his folded arms for a moment, appearing like he was deep in thought. When he looked up he had an expression of determination and fire. Similar to the one he wore earlier when he was being challenged.

"Yes, that's it," Sherlock's eyes narrowed before he continued. "I made a bet with myself that I can still thrash the lot of you."

Collin's eyes got big and he looked at the other two men beside him.

"If it sits better on your conscience for considering the prospect of fighting a blind man, we could start with the Irish Stand Down…although I believe as the bodies start falling you'll desire more of an advantage."

She could see the shift in the men's expressions as Sherlock spoke. She saw the same fiery resolve reflecting back. She knew at that moment the consulting detective had done it; they were in…or at least he was.

"One other problem…" Collin glanced at Molly. "The lovely lady here; it seems like our first and most important rule didn't apply to her."

Molly fidgeted restlessly in her seat as she looked from Collin to the detective, her mouth dropping slightly as she waited for his reply.

Sherlock's bravado waned a bit at this call out. He carefully stood to his full height which prompted Collin to do the same, waiting for the blind man's response.

"Yes, well…I consider Molly here…my eyes. She's been indispensable to me…in so many ways." Sherlock looked at his feet and cleared his throat. "She's come to be a bit of an extension of myself these past few months. Although I realize it's a tad irregular…I was hoping you gentlemen would consider her as such."

Her mouth dropped open just a little more at the hearing of what sounded like a confession. She realized of course they were on a case and that whatever expression of sentiment, however indirect, should not be taken too seriously. Regardless of this fact however, hearing those words made her heart clinch…just a little bit.

All three men exchanged looks and seemed to come to a wordless consensus. Collin turned to Molly and leaned closer as he locked eyes with her.

"We don't natter to anyone about fight club and when you join, you have to fight." He gave her a half-smile. "Well, not you, love…but your friend here," he remarked, giving her a wink.

Molly gave a small nod and a brief tentative smile before breaking their eye contact and lowered her glaze to her lap.

"Alright then, Will…if you think you're ready, you both can follow me."

The bar tender resumed his post and the other man followed behind them. As they approached the wall, Collin reached out and pressed his fingers against an unseen trigger that released the lock of the hidden door to reveal a dark passageway. Even though Sherlock retrieved his cane Molly still grabbed his hand before following Collin through the opening in the paneled wall. The man behind them closed the door, and stood presumably to safeguard the entrance.

Walking through the disused tram tunnel; the lighting was meager, making visibility spotty at best. As they continued down the shaft, Molly could hear distant echoes of grunts, shouts and jeers. Soon she was able to make out a heavy black curtain which was half drawn and suspended from a chain-linked partition. The unobscured side was crowded with men whose attention faced the opposite side. She heard the distinct sound of pounding flesh and the conflicting reactions from the surrounding spectators.

After hearing a barrage of particularly brutal pummeling, Molly looked up to see a completely composed detective. There was no sign of apprehension or foreboding, just an intense look of focus and concentration.

Biting her lip as they closed in on her first encounter with a fight club, she saw that some of the members were in various stages of dress. There were two that had their shirts wide open, while others were completely shirtless, either holding the clothing in their hands or had it draped over a shoulder. Some had obviously fought, nursing bludgeoned noses and lips with towels and the like. Others were waiting in a formless queue, readying themselves for a probable beating.

Collin began weaving his way through the crowd after signaling them to follow. Tightening her grip on Sherlock's hand, Molly angled her body in front of him as she set off winding them through single file. As she stuck close behind Collin she started noticing the attention her presence was creating. She began feeling the stares and hearing the murmurings as they past. She felt Sherlock's hand suddenly tighten around hers and she turned to look at his face. Where there was only laser sharp focus before Molly now saw a shadow of concern in the slight crinkling of the detective's brow. She could see the flexing of his jaw as suggestive hoots and whistles cut through the commotion.

That slight shift of vibe however provoked Collin to rear up and turn hostile.

"OY! This is NOT the place for that! You blokes know where to go for that sort of thing and this is NOT it! You show respect or you can get the hell OUT!"

His voice echoed through the tunnel and the group stilled considerably. She could see that the members of this fight club held Collin in high regard as she received more than one rueful glance and Sherlock was once again the picture of equanimity and confidence.

As she considered the assemblage of males she was surprised at how diverse it was. She counted five different ethnicities and it was obvious from their clothing and discourse that they also spanned a wide range of socio-economic status levels. It was rather fascinating. On the other hand, reflecting on the basis for the camaraderie, she wasn't sure if she should be repelled or pleased.

Suddenly she was snapped out of her musings by the united barks and bellows of the men around her. Two shirtless men stood toe to toe as a third who was dressed all in black acted as a type of referee.

With a pumping of their joined fists in between them, the fight began. The two started circling, sizing each other up. About ten seconds later one of them threw the first punch and Molly visibly flinched as bare-knuckle hit cartilage. As the brawl ensued, Molly had a hard time not watching the spectacle through her fingers. There was something so brutally visceral and riveting about the whole experience. The proximity of course only heightens the spellbinding allure, similar to the mesmeric draw that disables you from looking away after a grisly traffic accident.

She was mercifully distracted by Collin leaning over to Sherlock's ear and informing him of something or other. She could feel herself tense as the detective nodded a couple times in response. Still clasping each other's hands, she felt them become clammy. Molly wasn't completely sure who was the source but if she were to judge from Sherlock's cool exterior, it was undoubtedly herself.

Collin then walked a few meters to the left to watch the remainder of the current fray, which by the looks of things was rapidly coming to an end. The white cane was suddenly in front of her nose and Molly looked up at the man as she took it from his grasp. Sherlock released her hand as he began taking off his coat. She blinked at him when he folded it in half and advanced it in her direction. When she didn't take it immediately, he took hold of her shoulder and bend forward with intent. She inclined her head close enough to feel his breath on her neck.

"Would you be my armor bearer, Molly?" She looked up to see a small smile on his full lips and keenness in his eyes. She swallowed thickly before taking his long coat from him. Her eyes grew large as he began unbuttoning his white shirt. She had seen him bare-chested before of course, lying in his hospital bed connected to a host of beeping and blinking monitors. Somehow this had a different effect on her. As he tugged the shirt tails from his incredibly tailored trousers, he pulled off the rest of the shirt to reveal a pair of perfectly toned shoulders. As he turned to face the sounds of the scuffle she could see the traces of past injustices on his back and when he spun around to hand over the clothing she could see the scarring of Mary's bullet near his heart. Molly frowned as she received the pristine designer shirt.

Sherlock leaned close to her ear as he retrieved his white cane and said, "Courage, Molly," before a sudden splatter of blood sprayed in their direction, leaving a number of scarlet droplets across his right arm and Molly left cheek. Instinctively she squeezed her eyes shut as she heard a collective groan and the sound a body hitting the ground.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to my MOST awesome Beta: Writingwife83!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE FIGHT!

Chapter 20

 

As a group of men carried the unfortunate to what looked to be a make-shift clinic off to the side, Sherlock began circling the perimeter of the crowd with his cane. This prompted a plethora of commentary as the detective passed the stick across the spectators' legs. Soon all eyes were on Sherlock as he arrived back to tap the victors leg from the prior fight and stood right in front of him.

You could've heard a pin drop.

He quickly sized the blind man up, taking in his cane and the tell-tale distant gaze. The man was a couple of inches shorter then Sherlock but had a broader build. His hair was a dirty blond, way past shoulder length and pulled back in a low ponytail. He had a brooding expression as he turned to Collin, motioning with his arm at the embodiment of his protestation.

"What's this, Collin?" he said with a scowl. "You can't be serious."

"Listen up, you lot…this is Will. He's a former member and had some hard luck recently. He wants the opportunity to prove himself. Apparently he was quite formidable when he was sighted. Shall we give him a chance to see what he's still capable of?"

Collin turned slowly as he addressed the crowd with a bellowing voice. "Wha d'ya think, Rowan?"

"I'm not going to fight a blind man," he spat, as if he was speaking about a leper.

Collin stepped up into his face. "Fine…then you're done for the day, I guess," he said, in an unruffled manner, but his eyes were hard and cold as ice.

Rowan's face turned red as they stood glaring at each other, but instead of challenging him, he slowly turned away casting one last glower in Sherlock's direction.

Collin faced the detective, looked around him and waited. "Well?" he asked, his countenance growing darker by the second.

Sherlock's expression remained neutral and he stood immobile as a statue and to Molly appeared just as chiseled.

In as much as she didn't want him to fight, she could sense an almost primitive affront to his manhood which caused Molly to feel a kind of protective ferocity. It may not be rational or even intelligent, but she felt it down to her toes.

"Tossers…the lot of you." Collin turned to Sherlock and started removing his own shirt. "I'll fight you mate; although you'll have to lose the stick." He smiled before adding, "and The Irish Stand Down is just fine by me. My father was from Cork."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and a half smile spread slowly across his face. He turned and took three steps toward Molly, stretching out his cane to her. "If you please, Molly?" he said with a wink.

She took hold of it with both hands, her fingers briefly covering his before pulling away. Her eyes were glued to him as he slowly walked back to stand in front of Collin who was now shirtless and positioning himself in a fighting posture. Sherlock spread his feet out slightly, lowered his stance and extended his arms out in front of him.

Although still abnormally hushed, it was at that moment when Molly realized that the detective would have to rely heavily on tactile perception and his modified training, not his auditory sense, to give him the clues he needed. She was sure once the fists started flying the noise level would reach deafening proportions.

With her brows drawn together, she unconsciously held her breath as Collin closed in on his sightless opponent. She knew well enough at this point that he would have to suffer the first initial blows before establishing the essential spatial orientation. She just prayed they were relatively brief.

As Collin's fist made first contact with Sherlock's face, Molly was mercilessly reminded of the way his head snapped sideways after her own forceful slap. She felt a lump lodge itself in her throat as the shouts rose up from the nearby throng.

He didn't budge from the blow that Collin delivered. Instead he appeared to be analyzing the new data as his face returned to sightlessly gaze back at the man standing across from him.

She could see Collin evaluating Sherlock as well. His next punch was much harder, landing squarely on the detective's jaw causing him to lurch to one side but he was quick to recover. The strike left its mark, as his lip split open from the force a knuckle.

Molly began gnawing on her own lip as she watched the man she loved continue to stand rather stoically, apparently disposed to receive a beating. As Collin postured his arm yet again to deliver another cuff to the detective's face, she saw the ever so slight indication of readiness in his eyes.

Just as the third punch connected with Sherlock's chin, his hand stealthily shot up and grabbed Collin's wrist. Taking advantage of his body's extension, he pulled the man off balance before releasing a punishing right hook. The detective managed to turn up his wrist slightly which allowed the full impact of his blow to be absorbed by the heel of his hand, making it much more effective.

Collin staggered backwards as a collective shout from the onlookers reverberated off the tunnel walls. Sherlock's razor sharp focus became evident as he immediately stepped into his opponent's space and delivered a punch combination that stunned everyone, including Molly.

Collin was not easily stopped, however and came back with a hard crack to his ribs. This caused the detective to drop his shoulder and expose his opposite side giving Collin the opportunity to land a sharp uppercut to Sherlock's spleen.

The crowd was now in a full frenzy as the two were in a locked clinch. Molly couldn't see his face but she was sure he must have been hurting.

Taking advantage of the contact, Sherlock suddenly lowered his chin and head butted the man, cutting Collin's eyebrow, causing blood to run into his eye. He instinctively raised his hand to his head which allowed the detective to come in with a right to the body and then a left hook to the head. With this Collin pushed Sherlock off to break the contact.

The two stood for a moment rocking side to side, just catching their breath as the spectators ramped up their howls and started clapping in time, inciting them to resume the conflict.

Both opponents were bleeding now, and a sheen of perspiration covered their bodies. Collin's eyes had a new spark to them as he hunched and then shook out his arms to circulate the blood flow. Molly saw him crack a sly smile before rushing forward and jabbing with a left, leading Sherlock to narrow his guard. His smile widened as he saw the opening his feint created, bringing down a hammer fist to his left cheek and following with a forearm strike to his kidneys.

This caused Sherlock to double over, clinching his side in pain. Collin kept advancing though, attempting to take advantage of his weakened state. Stepping to the side he came in close range with a quick cut from the left. But as his fist came up and hit its target, Sherlock caught his arm and twisted from the waist, uncoiling his whole body and wheeled around with an elbow strike. It landed with ruthless precision along the right side of Collin's neck causing him to stagger and fall to one knee.

Sherlock closed in, bringing his left foot forward for leverage; he swung his leg up to knee Collin in the ribs. Just before contact however, he blocked the detective's leg, catching him off balance. He pulled him down, landing Sherlock flat on his back. He came down on him with a power punch to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. As he curled up on his side, gasping for air, Molly instinctively rushed forward but was caught by the arm by the ref in black.

"Sorry, love…no interference until one of them is unconscious or calls it off."

She turned with fervor in her eyes and stared up at the man. "If you don't remove your hand from my arm, you'll have another fight on your hands; although you won't be mediating this one."

He looked down at the fury in her eyes and loosened his grip enough for her to break free. Just as she reset her sights to aid the floored detective he was up and trying to get his bearings again.

"ALRIGHT?" she yelled over the commotion. He glanced over in Molly's direction and nodded quickly, but looked around in hesitation.

"SH…WILL! He's in your 2 O'clock," Molly shouted with her hands encircling her mouth. The look of uncertainty vanished a second later and he took one step in Collin's direction before hearing the man let out a huff of laughter, two meters in front of him.

"I thought perhaps I got the better of you…still up for more, are we?" he asked with amusement in his voice, wiping the blood from his face with a towel that was thrown his way.

"Why don't you just come closer and find out?" Sherlock said with a smirk as he straightened to his full height, clinching his hands into fists as they hung by his sides.

Collin grinned as he walked, tossing the bloody towel away before reaching the detective. They stood a meter apart, both waiting for the other.

Finally it was Collin who leaped out, quickly rotating his body parallel to Sherlock's, his right arm shot up and around the detective's shoulders and neck, trapping him in a head lock. His right arm wrapped tightly around his neck, so his body was slightly in front of Sherlock's left leg. Twisting his body so that his head and shoulders were bent in a submissive position; Collin brought two wicked left hooks to Sherlock's face.

As he came in for another devastating blow, Sherlock caught Collin's fist with his right hand, gripping it with his long fingers. Reaching with his left arm behind Collin's back, he grabbed his arm, totally immobilizing his punishing left hook.

Still holding his fist, He reached his left arm over Collin's right shoulder, pressing his forearm into his neck, forcing back his head. Pulling Collin's weight backward and over his thigh, he dropped him so that he fell roughly to the ground.

Sherlock landed with his full bodyweight on top of Collin's sternum and started pummeling him with repeated right hooks to the face. After the third hit, Collin thrust his arms out and hoarsely shouted, "I YIELD!" The shouts suddenly turning into low sounds of shock and amazement.

The consulting detective let his bloody cocked fist hover over the prone man a couple of seconds, before he pushed himself off and sank roughly on the ground next to him. Collin managed to sit up and stare at the blind man as they both caught their breath.

Molly rushed over and knelt beside Sherlock. She reached out and laid a small hand on his bare arm, making him flinch defensively.

"It's just me," she said leaning in closer.

His hand reached for hers as it rested on his arm. The tension eased in his posture and he inclined his head towards the woman who always seemed to be there, even when he didn't know he needed her.

As his forehead gently met hers, he closed his eyes before releasing a deep exhale.

"So it is," he said with a small smile.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REVIEW!
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83! You're wonderful :D


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys for all the great reviews...love each and every one!
> 
> Writingwife83...Thank you, Thank you! ;D

Chapter 21

 

Around ten or so meters beyond the perimeter of the 'ring' was a lounging area that looked very much like an old re-claimed public house. There were a number of worn but sturdy wooden tables and chairs towards the center, as well as booths, couches and armchairs situated alongside the tunnel walls.

Molly took a moment to appreciate the novelty of her surroundings, feeling a bit like she stepped back in time. It had a definite speak-easy quality and the clutter of old pugilist photos and engravings on the walls didn't detract from that mystique. There was a large wooden paneled bar with shelves from the Victorian era positioned perpendicular to the walls. It served as a type of partition along with several carved screens to function not only for a measure of privacy but as a bit of sound-proofing as well.

After Molly did her best to clean Sherlock's bloodied face, Collin invited the pair to have a sit down and a pint on him. They made themselves comfortable (relatively speaking in Sherlock's case) in one of the booths by the bar. There was quite a few others seated around them. Most sat talking and laughing amiably with broken noses and split lips and brows. She'd never seen such a large gathering of trounced men in one place before. It was quite a sight.

As she refocused her attention on the man sitting across from her, she couldn't help but smile. He sat ramrod straight in his seat. His elbows rested on the table and his hands were steepled under his fairly bruised chin with a contented look that could only mean he was rather pleased with himself.

"I'll get something at the bar for us, Sherlock. Want anything in particular?"

He flashed a quick smirk and said, "A scotch would be good about now."

As Molly was about to get up a bottle of beer was set in front of her. She looked up to see the referee standing over her with a grin.

"I thought I'd try to make up for grabbing you like that. Miss…"

"Huh? Oh, um…it's Molly," she said with a slightly confused expression. She glanced at Sherlock who appeared obviously bothered by the man's statement.

"Grabbing her?" he asked in a measured tone.

"Her arm," he said quickly, realizing how it must have sounded. "She was about to rush in and rescue you, actually…before I stopped her."

Sherlock's eyes enlarged a fraction, before an eyebrow shot up. "Oh?" he uttered, tonelessly.

Molly suddenly looked a bit sheepish as she lowered her eyes and started fiddling with her sleeve.

"Yes, well…" She tilted her head to one side and gave a little shrug. "You didn't really need me anyway," she said, looking up at the detective through her lashes.

"No, he didn't." The man looked over at Sherlock with a look of tempered admiration. "We're all somewhat impressed…Will, is it?"

Sherlock plastered a forced smile on his face. "Yes…Will. And your name?" he asked, before extending his hand.

"Paul…it's nice to meet you." He shook Sherlock's hand and then extended his to Molly, which she took good naturedly.

"And you, Molly," he said as his smile grew. "Please except my apology for earlier. I was just doing my job."

"I understand." Molly nodded with a small smile.

"You've created quite a stir yourself, you know. There were a number of blokes asking Collin about you…and Will, here. 'Just good friends,' is what he's been telling everyone. I thought I'd be the first one over here before the others."

Molly blinked up at him, not exactly sure as how to react. Then she remembered her part in all this and figured it would probably be her best opportunity to get some information. Glancing back at an entirely pokerfaced consulting detective, she sighed internally, because it was the last thing she felt like doing.

_You have a job to do, Hooper. The faster you chat him up for clues, the faster you can get back to Sherlock._

"I was about to get Will here, a scotch. Why don't you keep me company?" Molly said with a shy smile.

With that they both meandered over to the bar, leaving behind one irritated looking Sherlock Holmes.

He frowned as he caught snippets of their conversation. She was doing exactly as he had asked her to. In fact, from what he could hear she was doing rather well. So why was he so annoyed? He should be pleased at their progress. Everything was going as he had hoped. He was uneasy. Why? Was there something he missed?

As he sat, considering the possibilities, Collin came over with two drinks.

"Here you go, mate. Scotch I believe the little lady said?"

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts and grinned up at the man. "Yes, thank you, Collin."

"Do you mind if I join you? It looks like Paul's wasted no time getting to know your friend over there," Collin said with a low chuckle. "I can't say I blame him; she's quite something, that one. She cares an awful lot for you, guvna," he remarked with smirk.

Sherlock blinked at him a couple times and frowned slightly. He dropped his gaze to the table as his hand slid forward to locate his drink.

"Like I said before…she's a good friend." Picking up the glass, he knocked back a large swallow of scotch and grimaced at the intensity of the taste.

After taking his own mouthful, he studied the man in front of him. A slow half-smile stretched across one corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, mate…she's welcome here anytime. I'm positive the other bloke's wouldn't mind her company," he said with a snicker, watching carefully for his reaction.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a tad, as he swirled the scotch around in his glass.

"Mm…how nice…Unfortunately however, I don't think this is really Molly's…cup of tea, shall we say. In truth she only came with me for moral support…that sort of thing." He flashed a fleeting grin before taking a much slower sip of his scotch.

"Yeah, you may be right… it could be the lass just needs another good reason to come back," Collin retorted with a cheeky smile.

Sherlock's forehead crinkled as he opened his mouth to reply but the man cut him off before he was able.

"Look, mate…" the man said, suddenly becoming sober. "I've always considered myself pretty good at reading people. You _have_ to be in this line of business, yeah? There just seems to be more to the pair of you then meets the eye. I'm not sure what it is…and I'm not saying you're shamming or anything."

Collin's voice lowered as he leaned in closer to the detective. "I'm only saying that I'm a very face-value class of bloke. What you see is what you get. What we have here in this place is mostly based on an honor system…on a man's word. You have to be able to trust. And don't get me wrong, you've earned my respect from your skill in the ring. There's just something…I can't put my finger on it."

Sherlock sat staring at Collin for a moment with a blank expression in his sightless eyes. The only movement was the clinching of the detective's jaw. A second later he inhaled deeply as he raised his glass once more. Exhaling sharply through his nose before taking another swallow, his eyes seemed to be probing the man across from him.

"I haven't lied to you Collin, but you're right…there is more going on here than meets the eye."

Sherlock looked down as he swirled his drink again, taking a pause as he considered his change of plan.

Looking up as he put down the scotch, he clasped his hands in front of him, just under his chin. "I'm looking for someone, who was a possible member here. He was reportedly abducted several days ago but with no subsequent ransom demands, the trail has run cold. My one clue has led me here to you. His name is Weston Hockley."

Collin considered the blind man for a moment before answering.

"Well, this is an interesting turn of events," he said before downing the rest of his drink. Putting his glass down rather forcefully on the table, he leaned in close to Sherlock.

"We just so happen to be looking for the same man."

…..

Molly sat at the bar with Paul nursing her third beer. Leaning in his direction, with one elbow on the bar, her hand supporting her chin, she listened as the man droned on about his experiences as a fight club ref. At first the stories were rather amusing but after the first dozen or so they all started to sound the same and her mind started to wander to her stomach. Dashing out of the house without dinner hasn't helped her current state of appetite. The beer having provided the needed calories hasn't helped her sobriety.

She needed to move this along.

"HEY…" she said, louder than she meant to; her hand landing on Paul's arm.

"I was thinking you may know my cousin!" Molly's eyes shone with enthusiasm as she reached into her bag for her wallet. As she dug for the photo, she leaned in so close her face almost touched his shoulder. Paul smirked as he leaned in slightly himself.

"I hope I don't get him in trouble for…you know, telling me, but…" Molly's eyes locked onto his as she beguiled him with her yarn. "Wes let it slip when he was three sheets to the wind…so it's hard to fault him really. And he never said where it was or anything like that." Her doe eyes almost fluttered as she continued.

"He was just so over the moon about it…this fight club he found. The next day he made me promise not to say anything to anyone."

She could feel the alcohol doing new things to her…although she wasn't particularly alarmed due to the inexplicable enjoyment she was getting from narrating her falsehood. Still she did feel a twinge of guilt at the realization that she's become a much better liar since Sherlock's fall.

"Ah, here it is…do you know him?" Molly brought the photo up so they could both look at it. "Weston is his name," she said with affection so convincing she impressed herself.

Paul was a bit distracted by the pathologist's proximity but when his eyes did focus on the young man's face; he frowned and slowly took it from her hand to get a better look.

His gaze snapped to her face, and she knew at that moment they were close.

" _This_ …is your cousin?" He gaped at her, looking rather flabbergasted.

"Yes! So you know him than?" Molly tried to play it cool but she could feel her heart rate rise.

"Yeah, we know him," he said in a short manner.

_Uh, oh…_

"Is there something wrong?" Molly frowned, uncertain how to proceed from here.

Paul looked up and studied her face for a moment.

"We just haven't seen him in a while, that's all," he answered with a strained smile.

Molly was about to reply when suddenly Sherlock was next to her, with his cane, tapping her stool.

"Forgive the interruption…Paul is it? But I must take Molly from you. I'm sure there will be a future opportunity to continue your utterly engrossing and thought provoking conversation, but I'm afraid I'll need her back. Come on, Molly," the detective stated in rapid fashion, gripping her arm and gave it a tug for good measure.

"But…Will…I'm not quite… _ready_ to go just yet." Molly was trying to figure a way to signal that she was on to something but she wasn't sure precisely how.

"We have what we need…no point in continuing here, let's go. We have much to do." With that he held out his hand in expectation.

Molly's mouth hung open as she looked at Sherlock and then at Paul.

"Okay," she said rather weakly, before taking his hand and popping up from her seat.

"Um…it was nice talking with you," she managed to get out before they were well on their way towards the door.

…..

"Sherlock…I just found out that Paul knew Weston when you came over and whisked me away!" she shouted, gesturing with a swopping motion before her hands landed on her hips in irritation.

Signaling for a taxi with his usual grace, he smiled. "It seems…I beat you to it, Doctor Hooper."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sssooo...we are progressing. What did you think?
> 
> No fear, some Sherlolly goodness coming your way in the next chapter!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow burn is best…no? ;)

Chapter 22

 

On the way back to Baker Street they picked up some take away for a late supper as they discussed the new developments of the case. After the detective took a much needed shower, they split the dim sum while Sherlock recounted his conversation with Collin.

"It would seem that our Mr. Weston Hockley had some outstanding gambling debts. Apparently he is as skilled a gambler as he is a boxer. Collin cut him off from being an active member until he caught up. He hadn't seen him for almost three weeks, which was unusual for him. Weston spent almost all his time there…even tending bar when they needed him. And there's something else…"

Sherlock shifted in his seat and suddenly froze, wincing in pain while holding his side. Molly shot up and in an instant was kneeling in front of the detective.

"It's your ribs, isn't it? Damn it, Sherlock, why didn't you say anything? We need to wrap them right now."

"Don't be dramatic, Molly. It's not that…" he began until the pathologist cut him off.

"I don't care what you say, Sherlock. You're going to take off your clothes right now or…" Both their eyes got big at her demand.

She closed her eyes in mortification. "I meant…your shirt." Her cheeks flushed as she rose from her knees to make an escape for the first-aid kit.

When she returned, she frowned at the smirk he wore but was relieved to see him removing said shirt.

Molly took a breath before kneeling in front of the man. "You need to scoot closer, Sherlock."

"I don't scoot, Molly," he said wrinkling his nose, but managed to cautiously move his body to the edge of his chair anyway as the pathologist rolled her eyes.

She went into immediate doctor mode when the shirt revealed an angry mass of bruising along his sternum and ribcage.

"Oh, Sherlock…" Molly's brow knit together as her fingers came up to delicately touch the discolored skin.

He jumped slightly from her touch. "Your hands are cold."

"Sorry," she said with a smirk, as she rubbed her hands vigorously before tenderly feeling for any breakages. She frowned as she pressed along his left side making him flinch.

"Two cracked ribs," she said as she leaned forward with the roll of bandage, encircling her arms around his back to start the wrap.

"Hold this?" she asked, taking his hand and placing it on the end of the gauze. She began to slowly wind the dressing around his middle, each time inclining herself extremely close, as if they were in an embrace. Her small but deft fingers stretched the binding firmly along his back, from her right hand to her left.

Her own tactile sense seemed to sharpen suddenly as her fingertips could detect the marks of an old wound. Other than those scars, his skin was smooth and surprisingly warm. Her cheek brushed against the soft texture of his dark curls and she noticed something else. He smelled really good…of cedar wood, mint and sage.

_Focus! You're a doctor and he is your patient right now. Stop smelling the man, for god's sake._

She struggled to concentrate as her lips grazed his ear accidentally and she became acutely aware of the proximity of his neck. Molly shut her eyes for a moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly to clear her head.

It took all of her cognitive faculties to fulfill the task at hand, but complete it she did and with merit. As the end of the bandage was tied off she chanced to look up at the detective for the first time since she started.

She thought her heart would stop.

His eyes were a mixture of confusion and longing. Molly thought she was losing her mind because it looked as if his pupils were dilated.

"Are…are you okay?" she breathed.

Sherlock blinked twice as a scowl replaced his previous expression and he carefully pushed himself back in his chair.

"Are we done then? Am I adequately trussed to your satisfaction, Doctor Hooper?"

"Adequately…yes," she retorted simply. The pathologist tossed the shirt on his lap before settling back in her chair. "You were saying?"

Sherlock frowned. "Saying?"

"You were saying there was something else."

He thrust his arms into his shirt, not bothering with the buttons, before cautiously rising from his chair, (admitting only to himself that it was much easier since the wrapping) he walked over to the window. His right hand gently caressed the glass, feeling the smooth coldness under his fingertips.

Now it was Molly's turn to frown. Getting to her feet once more, she stood close by him. Slowly he closed his eyes and laid his forehead against the window.

"Perhaps I took too many blows to the head today," he said in a husky tone and a small smile.

Molly's worried look softened a bit with a half-smile of her own. "Mm…possibly," she said with a little nod.

"Max Baines," he said still leaning against the pane with his eyes closed.

Molly shook her head in confusion as she tried to follow the detective's cryptic thought process.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he raised his head. "The not-so-excommunicated friend, Molly. It would seem that the Hockley's have been misled regarding the status of that particular alliance."

Comprehension dawning, Molly's mouth took the form of an 'O' but made no sound to disrupt the man's discourse.

"Collin described the two as practically joined at the hip. They were together most of the time…even fought each other in the ring on occasion; it appears that they were somewhat evenly matched."

Sherlock turned and took a step in Molly's direction but stopped abruptly just before reaching her. He tentatively raised his hand until he lightly brushed her arm, leaving the skin burning from the contact as he slowly sidestepped her and sunk down into his chair.

"Just checking where you were…I lost track of you. A bit too quiet, I think," he said, tiredly leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"We'll need to pay the Hockley's a visit again…tomorrow…to find out more about the situation with… Max."

She was surprised to hear the detective's words start to slightly slur with fatigue.

"You should go to bed, Sherlock," she said softly as she touched the back of his chair.

"Mm…" he managed to utter before drifting into a deep sleep. Molly smiled down on the exhausted man, not that he would ever admit to being such. Pulling the tartan blanket off the back of John's chair, she laid it across the detective's long legs.

She looked at him for a moment…taking in his bruised face and split lip, suddenly feeling quite tired herself. Reflecting on how emotionally distressing the day had turned out; her eyes began to moisten a bit.

She found her hand stealing ever so slowly to delicately stroke the side of Sherlock's face. Her fingertips carefully caressed his battered cheekbone. A single tear found its path down her face and landed on one of his abused knuckles.

Before she could stop herself, Molly bent down and touched her lips lightly to the detective's temple and took one last breath of his scent before silently turning and walking up the stairs to her bed.

…..

"Mm…laahvnah, vin…eelllaa..."

Sherlock turned in his chair as sleep began loosening its hold on his body. In twilight state the pains from his injuries were still mercifully distant and the dream he just had wonderfully clear. In his dreams everything is as it once was, details crisp and true, colors even more vibrant then he remembered.

As his brain started processing the details of this particular dream, his brow furrowed at the peculiar flutter in the pit of his stomach. Drifting among the now quickly fading images he recalls seeing a pair of big brown eyes…Molly Hooper's eyes to be exact…and his own hands slowly reaching to touch her face. The flutter soon turned into a burn as the image faded and he found himself fighting the inevitability of consciousness.

When he reluctantly awoke, he was sure he could smell the alluring fragrance of vanilla and lavender.

…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And before you ask, my dear readers…the eyes of the cortically blind can indeed dilate. ;)
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83...you wonderful Beta, you!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have been patiently waiting for more revelation on this case...your wait is over! ;)
> 
> Enjoy...and please review!

Chapter 23

 

Romford Hockley became suddenly unsparing at the recent revelations concerning his son.

"I'm not surprised. We were fools to believe the boy was really trying. Who knows what he's been involved in these past couple of years." The bitterness in his voice grew by the second. "Showing up _only_ when expected and even then; he couldn't be bothered to even attend his own sister's _wedding_! What's more, I wouldn't be surprised if that Max Baines had something to do with Weston's kidnapping!"

Molly watched Mrs. Hockley's reaction to her husband's outburst.

"Why are you attacking your own son? I know Wes' made some mistakes…I also know you haven't allowed him to forget it. Our focus should be on doing everything we can to get him _back_ , not chastising him for having a life he didn't feel at liberty to share with us. It sounds to me that if Max _did_ have something to do with this, Wes was just as deceived as we were. He's the _victim_ here, Romford!"

As his eyes settled on his wife, his previous fury mixed with anguish and despair, leaving the marked impression of hopelessness on his features.

"I need you to tell me about the DWI incident that the two were involved in and everything that led up to it," said the detective with restrained impatience.

Mr. Hockley rose from his seat and walked to the door. "You tell them, Beatrice. I don't have the stomach for it at the moment." And with that he was gone, leaving Mrs. Hockley to relate the information, which she did with no small amount of courage and resolve.

She recounted the time when Max collected the first portion of his trust. Apparently in addition to buying the classic sports car, he also purchased some property, a loft to be exact, in New Concordia Wharf. It was a two bedroom warehouse conversion overlooking the River Thames.

It marked the beginning of the woes that were to beset the Hockley family.

While Weston was a minor, Romford had the impunity to rule with a fist of iron. When he turned of legal age however, his power over his son's life became limited. He did what he could to regulate the boy's choices; threatening to cut him off financially if it came to light that Weston was involved in anything unsavory. Whatever closeness the two may once have had quickly deteriorated as Romford Hockley became more and more involved in his business and focused not so much on who his son was developing into, but on being a relentless weight of critical authority.

It all came to a head when Weston and Max were arrested. Thus marking the ultimatum that terminated all future association with the Baines boy…or so they thought.

Weston put up a rather convincing front of 'turning a new leaf.' As the years went by he became quite adept at towing the line his father set. He had said that he started tending bar nights, part-time and even began some business courses at the College of Central London. He spent more and more time away from Orchard End presumably with his 'friends' from his classes and life in general. It wasn't until Julia's wedding that Mrs. Hockley started suspecting that her son was not being entirely honest.

The morning of the nuptials Weston had called saying he became suddenly ill and he was unable to attend. It wasn't until a week later that he contacted them again and another week after that when they actually set eyes on him. He looked a bit haggard to be sure but she wasn't entirely convinced that something else wasn't going on. Now in light of his involvement with the fight club, she believes that Weston probably sustained a particularly bad pummeling and decided against appearing.

At the time she kept her suspicions from her husband but choose to tactfully convey her availability to her son if he ever needed her. It was in his reaction to her concern that shone his father's hardhearted influence in Weston's life. For the first time she saw the same cold remoteness, not from her husband but from her son. It was at that moment when she feared she had lost him.

…..

"New Concordia Wharf, Mill Street, please," was Sherlock's only utterance for most of the long taxi ride back to London. He sat in deep thought, analyzing all the new data. Molly also used the time to go over the possibilities. Could Max really be involved? She thought it nearly impossible to know for sure until they actually met him. She couldn't help but feel a deep sympathy for Mrs. Hockley."

"What do you make of the Hockley's, Molly?"

The pathologist literally jumped from the sudden baritone that pierced her thoughts.

"Um…" Molly frowned as the question. "I think it's very sad…they seem to have many regrets concerning their son, well, at least Mrs. Hoc…"

"No…did you find anything odd about _them_ …about their reaction."

Her nose wrinkled as she turned toward her window. Her mind raced to review the details of their interview.

When Molly failed to answer, he asked another question.

"In your opinion, do you think Mrs. Hockley is an intelligent, observant sort of person who cares deeply for her family…including her abstruse husband?"

"I would say so, yes. She was the one to suspect Weston's dishonesty."

"Mm…indeed."

They sat in silence the rest of the way, leaving Molly to work out Sherlock's deliberations.

…..

As they set upon Southwark, London, Shad Thames to be exact and turned onto Mill Street, she was awed once more at the size of the converted old warehouses in this distract, one of them now called New Concordia Wharf.

When their taxi stopped and they set foot on the ancient dockside cobbles, Molly ogled the now wealthy housing district while Sherlock unfolded his cane.

"Shall we go meet Max Baines, Doctor Hooper?" Sherlock said with a gleam in his eye, as he offered his left hand. With a small grin she took his hand and led them through the double glass doors.

After signing the guest register for Baines, the pair walked down the strikingly beautiful lobby. The original exposed brickwork and arches surrounded them as they passed enormous cast iron columns that flanked the peripheries.

"Are you familiar with the history of these warehouses, Molly?"

"Um…not really, Sherlock"

"Mm…In the Victorian era they housed huge quantities of tea, coffee, spices and other commodities, which were loaded and unloaded onto river boats."

Abruptly the detective slowed to a halt, causing Molly to be pulled back rather suddenly. She looked behind her to see a curious expression on his face. She took a step back to him as he also reversed to stand close to an old brick archway. Molly watched as he tapped the arch with his cane and leaned into it.

"It is said that a century of spices had apparently infused itself into the brickwork." A trace of a smile graced his face. "Caraway," he said so low she almost missed it. She smiled too, as he paused to appreciate the anomalous observation.

Then an instant later he was practically dragging her into the lift saying with a smirk, "Really Molly, we don't have time for such triviality right now." She looked up at him in irritation as the lift doors closed in front of them.

…..

Evidently Max Baines' flat was on the other end of the penthouse floor which proved to be quite a trek from the lift. As they cornered their last left, Sherlock stopped again, without warning.

She bore a flash of annoyance as she was yanked back once more. "Alright, this is getting old now, Sher…" She froze as she saw the look on the detective's face. Not at all like the previous one. This one brought a chill to her spine.

"Sherlock?"

Slowly the man started walking again, gripping her hand tightly.

"Have you missed your work, Doctor Hooper?" The hairs on the back of her neck rose up now, as they reached the end of the corridor and stood in front of Max Baines door.

Molly's eyes grew large as saucers as she understood the reason for the detective's oddly timed query.

"Oh, no!" she breathed in a hoarse whisper, as the man beside her already had his picks out and started manipulating the lock until she heard the click and the door swung open.

The rancid stench of decay hit the pair immediately and Molly ran to open the large windows and French doors that led to the roof terrace.

If it hadn't been for the exceptionally palpable presence of death in the loft, she would have been impressed by the remarkable surroundings.

She quickly returned to the entryway where she left Sherlock standing.

"Make me see it, Molly," was all the detective said, as she stood by his side.

She went on to describe in great detail the sprawling reception/kitchen area. It had the same historic character as the rest of the building along with an exposed timber post and beam ceiling, but was also fused with a modern design aesthetic as well.

More important was the body that was spread face down about 5 meters from the front door. His head was about one meter from the lounge area that had a suite of leather sofas. As they ventured closer to the middle of the room Molly caught sight of another body that was partially on his side next to a large iron and glass coffee table.

"I think we just found Weston Hockley," Molly said in a low voice. Releasing Sherlock's hand, she went over and kneeled by the body.

"That must be Max Baines at your ten O'clock, Sherlock…about a meter from where you stand."

"You may as well begin your preliminary examination, Molly," he said, while retrieving his phone from his coat to call Lestrade on voice command.

Within ten minutes the DI was standing next to Sherlock watching the pathologist examine Weston first.

"Past the rigor state, so time of death would have been at least 48 hours ago and judging by the livor mortis and the rate of decomposition I'd say it could have been as long as four days ago. That's the best I can do with time of death right now. Due to the location of the hypostasis, the pooling of blood into the interstitial tissues; he died where he fell and was never moved. As for the cause…it looks like Weston died from blunt trauma to the head. The corner of the table here has traces of tissue and blood. My guess is that he fell or was pushed, hitting his head."

The two men stood mute, listening to her analysis as she moved over to the other body.

"Mm…time of death seems to be the same. Cause of death, a gunshot wound to the abdomen…close range judging by the size of the entry wound. The hypostasis is also the same. He has the gun in his hand, Sherlock," she said looking up from her position to the detective face, which bore a black look. "Gunshot residue?"

"Um…yes, it's consistent with a self-inflicted wound."

"Great," huffed Lestrade as he rubbed the back of his neck. He grabbed his phone with the intent of contacting the yard.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he stared in the vicinity of Max's body.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly asked, reflecting the detective's unease.

"I need a team down here. We have two bodies…one of them is Weston Hockley. We'll need the family to I.D. the body, so call…"

"Wait…" Sherlock said briskly, raising his hand in protest.

Greg looked at him with a puzzled look. "Hold on…" he said to his phone before laying a hand on it and inclined his head expectantly to the blind man.

"Hold off on calling the family just yet."

The DI frowned at the detective but amended his order anyway. "Don't call the family yet. Just wait for my word, yeah?" With that the man clicked off and ran a hand over his face.

"What are you thinking, mate?"

"I'm thinking that this isn't what it seems."

Both Lestrade and the pathologist looked around them as if they'd missed the obvious. Molly turned back with a furrowed brow looking more than a little bit confused.

"I'm not following…" she said, looking at him with anticipation.

Sherlock took a deep breath before beginning his supposition.

"The scenario to be believed here would be that Max kidnapped Weston obviously out of want for money to cover gambling debts and a costly lifestyle. It goes wrong, Weston dies and Max kills himself. Obviously not out of the realm of possibility. However, not at all probable considering the description Collin had given me regarding these two friends…a behavioral abnormality that doesn't sit right with me. Also, Max would have another portion of his family trust forthcoming in the not-so-distant future. Then there's the absence of the ransom note. Why? Clearly, something went awry. It's the "what" that is not so easily defined. There's also the parents…"

"Wait…what about the parents?" Greg asked in confusion. "What's wrong with them, now?"

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock…you're not suggesting that Mrs. Hockley had anything to do with this!"

"Not _Mrs._ Hockley… _Mr._ Hockley."

She blinked at him in shock, trying to process the likelihood of such an actuality.

"What's your proof, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with one hand extended in bewilderment.

"Ah…proof. No, I have no proof, Inspector," he said with a smirk. "That has yet to be attained."

The DI stretched out both arms, looking to the sky in exasperation, he spun halfway and then turned back to face the two. Looking to Molly with a pleading expression; she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.

"You've got to give me a little more here, Sherlock," Greg asked with a slight grimace.

"Mrs. Hockley is accustomed to her husband's provocations, yet his reaction to our news of his son's clandestine activities was unexpected, not so much focused on the future safety of his son but of past wrongs. Judging from Mrs. Hockley's reaction, it was unusually harsh and uncaring…even for him. There's always been something rather off with Romford Hockley's demeanor towards us. It reminds me a bit of interviewing a hostile witness. My theory is that there's more to this than he is saying. Do I have tangible evidence to the fact? No…not yet."

"Yet? What are you considering, Sherlock?" the DI asked, totally befuddled.

"We'll have to set a ruse, Lestrade. One that will cause him to incriminate himself."

…..

Mr. Hockley stood over his son's covered body as Molly knelled to reveal his face. When she did, his pokerfaced demeanor fractured as his eyes slowly shut, as if to buffer himself against the cold reality that lay before him.

"That's him."

Shrouding Weston's head once more, Molly was careful not to disturb the protected area surrounding where his arm was stretched out in an odd position.

"So it was Max, then? I was right," he said in an aggressive manner.

"That has yet to be determined, actually," Sherlock said in a modulated tone.

Mr. Hockley's head snapped up to glare at the detective. "What are you talking about? Isn't it obvious what's happened here?" he barked, looking to the DI who stood nearby.

"At first glance, yes…it seems to be a murder/suicide, but our examination revealed a possible clue left by Weston's own hand." Lestrade hands went to his hips as he frowned down at the covered corpse.

Romford Hockley's flinty eyes narrowed a fraction before slowly reacting to the DI's words.

"What clue?" He deliberately shifted his scrutiny to all three, but it was Sherlock who responded.

"Apparently there are distinctive scratches in the floor, which appears to have been left by your son. Unfortunately, it's too problematic to read indisputably with the naked eye. We are expecting the arrival of a state-of-the-art camera called a Criminalistics Light-Imaging Unit, which is able to uncover evidence using multispectral reflectance imaging. If there was any intent from your son to leave behind a message to identify his killer, the CLU will find it. Unfortunately we'll have to wait until tomorrow for its arrival."

When Sherlock first revealed his suspicions earlier, Molly wasn't entirely sure she shared his opinion; at least not until she studied Mr. Hockley's reaction during the detective explanation. There was a look that flared briefly in his eyes as the detective laid the trap, an expression that told the pathologist something wasn't right.

"It's possible with this type of blunt head trauma Weston could have lived long enough to leave a message and it's also consistent with the predicted time of death," Molly added with authority in her voice.

He stood here looking at her, seemingly frozen in thought, until a moment later; Romford Hockley turned and started for the door. "Till tomorrow, then." And he was gone.

The three remained motionless for an instant, until Donavan came in a moment later, "He's gone boss. Should we put a man on him?"

"Nah, we can't. There's not enough probable cause," the DI said with a scowl, deep in thought.

As the Sergeant exited the loft once more, Molly turned to the detective who looked fairly pleased.

"Sherlock, what now? I mean…do you have a plan?"

"The plan is to get our proof, Molly. If Romford Hockley is indeed guilty of killing his son and Max Baines, then he will undoubtedly return to obliterate the alleged confirmation of his guilt. We will sit and wait…like a spider for her prey."

...

 


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Sherlock was sure that Mr. Hockley wouldn't venture out until after 12 AM. Only the DI and the Sergeant were involved in this scheme due to the obvious lack of evidence. The detective managed to convince Greg to let him and Molly wait in the darkened loft. Instead Donavan and Lestrade staked out the two opposing stairwells of the warehouse…perched halfway up the next floor; the pair had the perfect vantage point when and if their suspect made his appearance. Making sure that all security for the side entrances were disengaged, their snare was now set.

Ironically Sherlock had more of an advantage in this situation than Molly, due to his impressively honed talent for maneuvering about in the dark; not to mention his skill with potentially violent encounters with the criminal mind. The detective made sure his 'virtual' representation of the crime scene was accurate.

Another source of irony was the challenge of finding the most advantageous hiding spot in such an immense space. The open format of the loft definitely working against them, they opted for the entry cupboard, which thankfully had lovely pocket doors that made virtually no noise when shifted. Once opened Molly had a straight line of view to the suite of sofas. It was a second later that she realized she'll be rather snugly confined with Sherlock…in a cupboard…potentially for hours.

_"Oh."_ In spite of the close quarters though, she realized it was much wiser not to split up as they were stronger together then they were apart.

As far as cupboards go, it was fairly large. But it was still a cupboard and a properly crowded one at that. After moving most of the shoes and long garments to the opposite end, the pair sat against the wall, side by side, somewhat tightly, at a little past midnight, waiting for Romford Hockley to arrive. The door was half open for air circulation and their phones were at the ready, anticipating the text that signaled their suspect was indeed on his way. Molly benefited from the phones ambient light, giving her minimal visibility of a quantity of expensive designer clothing and the alert profile of a certain consulting detective.

As they sat in silence her thoughts wandered to the tragedy that was the Hockley family. It made her all the more appreciative of her relationship with her own father and how lucky she had been to have him.

"What's your father like, Sherlock?" Molly asked in a small whisper which still managed to pervade their restricted space. She watched as his previous neutral expression subtlety altered into a rather pensive one. He blinked twice before glancing briefly in her direction. Shifting his weight, he cleared his throat before opening his mouth slightly but then slowly closed it again. His brow wrinkled in thought and she was a bit surprised at the level of consideration he was giving her question.

"Very different from me… _and_ Mycroft, for that matter."

"Are you two…close, at all?"

The furrow in his brow deepened as he leaned back to rest his head against the wall behind him.

"Not particularly. Certainly not the way you and your father were."

She sensed that he had more to say, so she waited before responding.

"It's not for lack of…trying, on his part." The look in his eyes seemed to be contemplating the past as he continued. "Mycroft and I weren't…the easiest individuals to get close to," he said with a small smirk and sideways glance.

"I can't for the life of me imagine why," Molly said with an almost straight face.

Sherlock turned his head so he was almost completely facing her and cocked an eyebrow disapprovingly. "Cheek doesn't become you, Molly Hooper," he quipped as she released a low chuckle.

"Hmm…" she hummed, as she rested her head against the wall. She shifted her body a bit in the detective's direction, causing her knee to rest on his thigh.

"Oh, sorry…I," she muttered shyly, as she tried to move away from the contact.

"Stop apologizing, Molly. You can rest your leg on mine. The night has the potential of being a long one; so it seems only logical to be as comfortable as possible under the constricted circumstances."

Molly looked a little shocked at his reaction but slowly let her slightly bent knees relax once more on his thigh.

"Uh, okay…are you sure?"

The detective gave a quick eye roll and made a face as if she was acting ridiculous.

"Please, Molly. You act as if physical contact with you would send me off some metaphorical deep end."

Molly's eyes got big at his words. "Well, no…I didn't mean…I just don't want to make you…uncomfortable."

"First of all, I haven't been 'uncomfortable' in your presence since you slapped me for being high. Secondly, since I've lost my sight, the somatic senses have become arguably my primary sensory modality, second perhaps, only to auditory perception. My comfort zone has become notably enlarged."

She felt her body become less tense from his words and she leaned the side of her head against the wall as she gazed at him with a small smile. _He has come a long way._

Wanting to change the subject she tried to go back to their earlier conversation.

"What's your favorite memory of your dad?" she asked, almost completely relaxed beside him.

"The building of my tree pirate ship," Sherlock said without hesitation.

Her smile grew at his answer. "Can you tell me about it?" she asked timidly.

Glancing down at her, his eyebrows shot up under his curly fringe as he briefly contemplated her request.

"We do have some time to kill, don't we?" he sighed, before starting his story. "Let's see…" He rested his head against the wall once more as he sightlessly gazed up into space.

"I had just turned nine and Mycroft was off to school for the first time." He frowned slightly from the memory.

"Believe it or not, I was fairly attached to him at that age, so it had been an…adjustment when he'd gone. My dog Redbeard had died the year prior, so things were a bit bleak on the home front," Sherlock recalled matter-of-factly.

"My parents were worried about me, of course. So my father tried to make an extra effort to show me attention. He had taken an extended weekend from his work to plan and build a tree house in a particularly grand oak tree round the rears of our home in Surrey. We sat at our kitchen table for over an hour designing it. By the end of the process it was transformed into a pirate ship."

She grinned rather sleepily, as her eyes started to grew heavy at the lulling sound of his voice.

"After our blueprint was drawn, my mathematician mother worked out exact calculations for our load of lumber, which was quite considerable I might add. By the end of that day we had everything we needed to begin construction. Early the next morning my father and I worked out a production schedule and we figured that by Monday evening it would be completed…and it was."

A slow easy smile spread on his face from the memory. "I admit that it _was_ a rather elaborate design…the single admittance point was through a hatch in the floor that could only be accessed by a rope ladder. It had a captain's wheel and even a crow's nest equipped with a portable telescope, which was about three meters up the tree's central limb; big and sturdy enough for one child to sit and read for hours on end, much to my mother's…"

The detective was distracted from his recollections at the sudden pressure of Molly's head on his shoulder. His lips twitched before a half smirk appeared on the detective's face. Soon the pathologist's slight form began to rest heavily on his side. As Sherlock inclined his head in her direction he detected the distinct scent of vanilla and lavender again, which caused a spontaneous flutter in his stomach. The fragrance triggered a distant memory of a gentle caress on his cheek and a soft graze on his temple.

As his mind struggled to make sense of the impressions, Molly shifted her whole body so her left leg folded onto the detectives lap and her head rested on top of his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes grew large as he felt her arm snake slowly around his middle and tightened in a firm snuggle. He swallowed thickly as the flutter transformed into a warmth that radiated through his chest and downward to his toes.

_What the hell is that?_ He frowned at the sudden sensation that confused and thrilled him simultaneously. As bemused as he was, he nevertheless had the marked desire to touch this small woman who was unconsciously nuzzling herself against him. His arms seemed oddly out of sorts as his hands were slightly extended away from her.

He felt a strange internal battle. Temptation.

_No…it couldn't be. There must be some other logical explanation._

He frowned as he considered the data. He tried to objectively review the cause and effect for this particular inclination, which led him to hastily review the handful of other similar experiences with a certain pathologist. Meanwhile his hands were unconsciously getting closer to Molly's slumbering form.

_What am I expected to do? She's sleeping. Obviously unaware of what her…body is doing. She's tired. Probably subconsciously searching for comfort and security in a moment of uncertainty and possible jeopardy. It would be ludicrous to wake her, especially after the lecture regarding my 'notably enlarged' comfort zone._

Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace to find that his hands were lightly resting on her back and arm.

Instantly he started processing the physical stimuli received through the mechanoreceptors in his skin; the softness and warmth of her made its way to the somatosensory systems in his brain.

The scent of her triggered his olfactory receptor neurons and he was unexpectedly remembering when he had fallen to the floor with her small form underneath him; the first time smelling the fragrance of vanilla and lavender. Sherlock closed his eyes as the memory of her came rushing back. Even the tip of his basilar membrane vibrated in sync with the sound waves from the rhythmic resonances of her soft breathing and it was affecting him in ways he never experienced before.

But instead of being repelled, he felt drawn; so much so that his left arm wrapped further around her waist as his right hand slid across her arm to her shoulder. At that moment they both seemed to tighten their grip on each other, one asleep, the other very much awake with his pulse increasing by the second.

Sherlock's racing thoughts began to slow as he became more and more in tuned with one Molly Hooper, as she began to literally fill his senses.

That is until both their phones chimed at once sending them out of each other's arms in a fraction of a second. The consulting detective seemed to jump ten centimeters in the opposite direction while Molly shot upright, completely disoriented as to even where she was for a moment.

"He's coming your way…by the south stairwell…will get to you in one or two minutes," Sherlock's phone informed the two.

"Where?...ugh, Sherlock, sorry…I totally nodded off!" she said sleepily, completely unaware of the instant before.

"I know, Molly. It's fine. We'll need to prepare ourselves, though. He's on his way. Let's mute the phones just in case."

Within a half minute they sat in readiness; the cupboard door just slightly open to permit Molly the view of the dark outlines of the sofas.

The sharp click of the front door gave them the first indication that they were no longer alone. Molly held her breath as she caught sight of the shadowy figure of Romford Hockley stealing across the room. His shape was now obscured behind the sofa and she saw the slight glow from a hand held light source when he knelled beside the body. Sherlock waited a good minute as they listened to the distinct sound of scratching. As he rose from his haunches and slowly slid the cupboard door open, the pair emerged from their hiding spot to face the now stilled shape knelling before them. Molly could see the shrouded figure slowly rise and turn to face them, shining his light in their eyes.

"Doctor Hooper, would you be kind enough to illuminate the room, so you can get a better look at our killer?" Sherlock asked tonelessly. Molly walked the couple of meters behind them to flip on the recessed lights which revealed a completely horrified Mr. Hockley.

"Before you entertain the thought of doing something as futile as leaving us, know that the officer you passed in the stairwell is now waiting outside this door. Not to mention avoiding the whole evading arrest charge that would add to your crime. _If_ you on the other hand give us a full confession, it may work to your advantage during your trial."

His look of horror morphed into something closer to hopeless despair before slowly covering his face with both his hands. He stood like that until Molly's soft voice cut through his agonizing silence.

"What happened, Mr. Hockley?"

Slowly he uncovered his face to reveal an expression of dejected misery and something else…surrender.

He lowered himself to sit on the coffee table behind him, while Molly led Sherlock by the hand to sit together on the couch opposite the man.

As he sat, his eyes drifted over to rest on the body of his covered son and the pathologist saw something that she'd assume was completely out of character for Romford Hockley. She saw tears.

He drew in a shaky breath before wiping his face with his large hand. Molly marveled to herself at how small and frail this once imposing, bull of a man suddenly appeared.

"When I got the call I was in my office…working late. It was just a bit after nine. When the first call came I decided to wait…to do as he said about telling no one. At this point my wife knew nothing about it. I thought perhaps I could spare her…take care of it on my own. The second call came in exactly twenty minutes later. The demands were for five million pounds and if the police were notified Weston would die. Since it was Thursday I had payroll and the week's profits still in my safe, so I was able to cover the ransom amount…no need for bank withdrawals. The drop off location was near the Finsbury park entrance in Parkland Walk by eleven O'clock. Once there I'd wait for further instructions.

It was a good 70 km drive, so I left right away after getting the money together. I arrived just before eleven and shortly after received a text instructing me to follow the walk to the tunnels leading to High Gate Station and put the money in the exposed roots of an old sycamore tree that was partly retained by the brick remains of an old signal man's hut. Which I did. Soon after I received another text telling me to rendezvous for Weston's return at the Arnold Circus bandstand by midnight. I decided to go directly there and just wait."

Mr. Hockley's eyes turned bitter as he recounted what happened next.

"As I turned onto Ashley Road…I saw it," he hissed as the memory seemed to burn. "The car…MAX'S CAR…I'll never forget that _damned_ car. I knew it was him. At that moment, I knew it was _all_ a scheme. OH, and I knew where he was…the loft…in Shad Thames. I knew he was here. So here I came."

He paused and took a deep breath before slowly rubbing his face with both hands. As they slid down again his eyes landed back on Weston's body. He just stared for a moment before resuming his tragic account.

"All I could think about was the selfish betrayal…the lies…the disrespect." He closed his eyes as he continued. "When I saw him…I just…lost control. I grabbed him and pushed him …with all that I had, all of my rage. He flew backwards and hit his head…hard. I saw the blood. I listened for his heart…for his pulse. He wasn't breathing. I was about to call for help when…when Max came in." Mr. Hockley's voice became low and menacing.

"He saw me and then he saw Wes…and the blood. He took out a gun." He began to laugh…a bitter, hopeless kind of laugh that brought a chill to Molly's spine.

"The sight of the gun just enraged me all the more. I lost my mind and I rushed him. We struggled. He lost." His voice trailed off and it appeared like all the anger and rage just drained out of him as he sat looking at his dead son.

"I wish Max had killed me instead," was the last thing Romford Hockley said to them.

…..

It would be assumed that this would have proved to be the death blow for the Hockley family. Obviously Beatrice was devastated by the news of the death of her son at his father's hand, albeit unintentionally. Nevertheless, before Romford Hockley's sentencing he was granted the chance to talk with his wife and for the first time in many years…they did. As heart breaking as it was, it was also a time for truth-telling and even in spite of it all, a time for restoration.

After much soul searching Mrs. Hockley decided against divorcing her husband. Instead she witnessed a remarkable turnaround during his years in prison…while they were apart, they actually found each other again. Those years also brought the births of their grandchildren, the youngest bearing the name of his uncle…life's greatest expression for a new beginning.

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay...so resolution! Finally...that case did go much longer then I had originally planned.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, though. Hold tight...more Sherlolly escapades to come! Reviews would be most certainly appreciated! :D
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told by my lovely beta Writingwife83, that you all will appreciate this next chapter! ;D I hope so...it's probably my favorite one so far. It was the only scene that I was so inspired to write, I completed it very early on...waiting for it's appropriate moment to be added. So here it is...please, let me know your thoughts! They mean an awful lot!

Chapter 25

 

In their chairs they sat in a comfortable silence; Molly enjoyed the crackling from the hearth, as well as the warmth it cast upon the room, both literally and figuratively. They wordlessly reflected on the recent events, allowing the calming effects of the hot brew and the glimmering fire to settle their nerves.

It was during these contemplations that the pathologist made a certain connection. Gazing at the detective she slowly leaned forward, continuing to work out the fresh revelation and its implications.

"Sherlock…"

"Mm…" She could tell by his rather content and far away expression that he was only half listening. The other half was contemplating the events of the week that led up to the recent arrest of Romford Hockley. As tragic as the circumstances were, they both were pleased that justice was served and their first case together was a success.

She wondered if she should continue, risking the possibility of permanently interrupting his good mood. "Um…I was just…thinking."

"Do tell, Molly…I was actually aware that you've experienced that phenomenon from time to time." His eyebrows shot up and his mouth bore a trace of a sardonic smile.

He was teasing her.

"I do believe that the occasion is a touch more frequent in your case than in most."

A small smirk lurked around the corners of her mouth. She enjoyed the rare moment of playfulness that he was indulging in and contemplated dropping the subject all together. But the detective now sat waiting for her to continue with said thought. She felt a sort of giddy nervousness at the possibility of delving deeper into the depths of Sherlock's heart and mind.

"Um…well, something just occurred to me."

The glow of the fire reflected off the pathologists face, illuminating the look of intense contemplation that grew with each passing moment.

"About your mind palace…you know, your new normal…"

"Yeees…?" His mocking expression lingered but it was now tinged with a bit of curiosity.

"The people…I mean…you said your 'perceived reality' in your mind's eye is minimal until you actually touch it, allowing the tactile data to sharpen the image. I guess I was just wondering how…we…appear to you?" Her question came out cautiously.

The realization of what she was asking began to dawn; the playfulness receded to a guarded admiration at her perception. He took a deep breath before draining his tea and placing the cup on the table beside him. Leaning forward with elbows on his knees, unintentionally matching Molly's posture, the detective brought his steepled fingers to his lips. Casting his gaze downward, he considered his response.

Molly sat patiently watching his every movement. His eyes unexpectedly shot up to her face, and she had to remind herself that he wasn't actually looking at her. After a second of staring, he once again lowered his gaze and his hands before clearing his throat.

"You all look… _ghost-like,_ I guess you can call it." His brow furrowed a bit before continuing. "Curious, actually…seems to be a side-effect in switching from visual to tactile centric adaptation. My normal perception has always been true to life, of course. But since…" he paused. "Ironically, the only time I perceive people as corporally accurate is when I'm actually dreaming." An equally ironic smile floated across his features.

They sat in silence for a while as Molly considered his words.

"Interesting enough though, I don't find it as disturbing as you would think." His expression changed into one of good-natured resignation. "You know I don't suffer fools well. It is a bit of a relief when they naturally fade like a specter as the more vital details come to the forefront."

There was a twinkle in his eye which caused her to softly chuckle. "I can see that _definitely_ working to your advantage." There was another brief pause before she continued. "But don't you…" She frowned into her tea as she pondered her words. "I mean, those you're…closest to, wouldn't you…?" She bit the inside of her cheek, nervous at his reaction to what she would say next. But she decided to proceed with caution and let the pieces fall where they may.

"I'm sure that the few you…that care for you most, wouldn't mind…you know."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he started to follow her line of thinking.

"I mean, you'd only have to touch us once, right? Not that it matters, of course, I mean, I'm sure…"

_Oh, please STOP… you're babbling again!_

But instead of the negative reaction she half expected, Sherlock's eyes softened before becoming slightly amused.

"Yes, I could just picture John's reaction when I tell him I want to touch his face so I can see him better."

Molly's large doe eyes blinked three times before she spontaneously threw her head back and erupted in a belly laugh. The sudden sound of her hilarity caused the detective to join in with a low rumble of a chuckle, ending with the two grinning widely at each other.

"Well, I'm sure Mary would be rightly amused," she said in an affectionate tone.

He tilted his head as his grin turned into a rakish smirk. "Indeed she would."

They sat in a restful calm once more as the fire popped its embers and Molly took several more sips of her tea before setting down her cup on its saucer.

As she continued to ponder the subject she became increasingly motivated to do what she could to make things better. She knew that if it were _her_ , and she had the capability of clearly seeing those she loved most in the world, she would want to make that happen…as quickly as possible.

"Sherlock…" she spoke in a carefully muted tone while shifting herself to the edge of her seat.

Molly's brow knitted as she contemplated her next words.

_Be practical and logical._

"Don't you think it would be to your advantage…to have your assistant more…substantially present?"

He sat motionless for almost a whole minute. His face was completely void of any indication of what was transpiring inside the man's head. For a moment she thought she may have pushed him too far down a slippery slope.

_Perhaps I misjudged him. We are different in so many ways…especially when it comes to our emotional needs._

Just when she was about to recant her suggestion, Sherlock stirred. He slowly shifted his weight to the edge of his chair bringing his body close enough that his knees made contact with the pathologist.

Adjusting to their new proximity he moved his legs on either side of hers and sat stock still and erect as if preparing for the revelation of something vitally important.

Molly sat with her eyes wide as she realized what the detective was readying to do. She swallowed thickly as her stomach began to flutter at the sight of his hands hovering above where they had previously rested on his knees.

She saw hesitation on his face as a crinkle appeared between his eyes. Uncertain at how to proceed, he waited. She brought her own hands up, mirroring his position and flexed them into fists when she realized they started to shake. After taking a deep breath she slowly reached out to lightly touch the back of his palms. She felt him react to her sudden touch and saw his frown deepen slightly.

They sat there frozen for a moment until Molly gently wrapped her fingers around his hands and pulled them slowly to her face. As his fingers touched her skin her breathing hitched as the contact was both electric and cooling all at once. She saw Sherlock's crystalline eyes grow fractionally larger as he slowly slid his hands up the sides of her face. His long fingers grazed past her temples until they ended up touching her forehead and hair.

She watched him, barely breathing herself, as his eyes closed and his lips parted just slightly. His hands started making their way across the plains of her face, tracing the contours of her brow. She closed her own eyes as she felt him gently pass over her lids, the tip of her ears and lightly caressed her cheekbones.

A burst of warmth started from her stomach and radiated out over her chest, as her heart rate increased its rhythm; she thought she may have died and gone to heaven.

She opened her eyes again as his thumbs met at the gentle slope of her nose and slid down over its ridge, down towards its tip. She watched for any reaction as she tried her best to keep her own breathing deep and steady.

As his thumbs past over her nose and they came in gentle contact with her lips, Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he traced the outline of her mouth which parted ever so slightly, seemingly of it's own accord. They continued their journey over her chin and followed the course of her delicate jawline, down to the curve of her neck.

He stilled for a moment before his right hand continued into her long loose tresses and his left retraced its path back along the contour of her face. This time she could feel the cool touch of his fingers, as each one gently passed over her lips again.

During the exploration of Molly's facial structure, the detective's features remained placid and composed…at least until his fingers touched her mouth the second time.

Sherlock licked his own lips as his gaze flitted over to where his fingers gently rubbed over its softness.

She saw a small change in his eyes, so subtle that only she could have detected it. She had to fight the sudden urge to kiss his hand as it hovered over her, all the while trying to emotionally prepare herself for the impending loss of his touch.

But instead of removing his hands entirely, they traveled back up to the sides of her temples and buried themselves in the softness of her hair. Slowly he let his fingers play through the long strands until they completely passed through them ending with his hands on top of her own which lay in her lap.

Her eyes never left his through the whole experience. She saw the shift from calculated gaze to full recognition before her eyes. She watched in amazement as this recognition evolved into an expression of relief, admiration and if it was anyone else, one of…love.

Silently she sat there…apparently no longer capable of intelligent speech.

Suddenly his fingers wrapped around hers and a smile like she'd never seen before graced Sherlock's face.

"Hello, Molly Hooper."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my incredible beta Writingwife83...you're wonderful, wonderful!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here's the deal...this is dedicated to Shyvioletgirl for suggesting Sherlock's POV. Couldn't get the thought out of my head...so here it is! 
> 
> You guys really do get me thinking, so thanks again for taking the time!

 

Chapter 26

He knew she had fallen asleep again in her chair. When he consciously emerged from his mind palace he could hear the deep regularity of her breathing. There was a definite chill in the air, so he knew that hours must have passed due to the vanishing warmth from the hearth.

Minutes later he stood in front of the fireplace enjoying its heat once again. He turned at the sound of Molly's sigh as she shifted in her seat.

He could see her now.

At least he saw a perfect manifestation of Molly…compliments of the virtual reality his mind palace produced. His mind's eye saw his pathologist curled up in John's chair with her long auburn hair cascaded about her shoulders, partially veiling her face. He wondered for a moment how accurate it was. As he stood 'gazing' at her slumbering form he realized that he truthfully didn't care.

She was real… _substantial_ was the word she used. As he replayed their conversation in his head, a hint of a small smile appeared on his face and he took a step closer to where Molly slept. He recalled the tingle in his fingers when they first made contact with her skin. He inhaled sharply at the memory and slowly shut his eyes as it evoked the now familiar flutter in his stomach. His hands closed into fists as his fingers felt the electric sensation…yet again. When he opened his eyes he found himself standing next to her, his legs touching the side of the armchair.

And there it was…for a second time, the compulsion to touch her. He frowned as he felt the back of his hand brush against her body. Tentatively his fingers grazed what he knew was her ankle.

She was cold.

His brow furrowed even more as he considered his next action. Standing directly in front of her now he brought both hands out and touched her shoulder and calf…she was unquestionably chilled. Without another thought he gently lifted the small woman to his chest and carefully maneuvered them both out of the sitting room, past the hall and into his bedroom. He slowly laid her down onto his bed and pulled the dark grey comforter over her sleeping form. As he tucked it's softness around her shoulders his hand trailed along her back, up to her neck and cheek.

A moment later he leaned down…his nose just brushing her ear. Sherlock lightly pressed his warm lips to her jawline and breathed in the scent of her. He smiled against her skin before moving away.

"Sweet dreams, Molly Hooper," he whispered, before closing the door behind him.

…..

"Mm…" she woke up to the gentle sound of falling rain on the window glass. Right away her brain knew something was off. The bed and the pillow beneath her felt…unfamiliar. And the scent in the room…well, that was…

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up, trying to focus in the dim room.

 _What the…?_ Her eyes widened as she realized where she was. _But…how?_

Molly sat for a minute trying to work out how she found herself sleeping in Sherlock Holmes' bed. She panicked before she looked down and found herself fully dressed. Closing her eyes in sweet relief, she felt a bit silly at the crazy thoughts that were going through her head.

The last thing she remembered was dozing by the fire as Sherlock played his violin.

_Fell asleep obviously…but…_

The only thing that made sense was the idea of Sherlock carrying her into his bedroom. Her hands came up to her burning cheeks as she pictured the scene.

_Why did he do it?_

She lay back in the bed as she contemplated the answer. Her mind kept coming up with the same resolution but she couldn't quite make herself believe it.

_He cares for me. Sherlock Bloody Holmes cares for me._

As she declared the improbable in her head, the detective's bedroom began to blur from the tears that were hindering her vision.

_What did he always say? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

Molly closed her eyes as the revelation became clear and a sweet smile appeared on the pathologists face. She wished she could remember the feeling of his arms as they held her; she could only hope as she drifted back into a blissful sleep, that it would come to her in a dream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little sub-chapter was un-beta ed...so any mistakes were my own! Hope it made you all smile! :)


	27. Chapter 27

It had been the first real weekend that the Watson's had off in over six weeks…two consecutive days had proved to be a rare occurrence as the season turned decidedly colder. They agreed that some much needed family time was in order and after spending a whole glorious Saturday doing nothing in particular; Sunday afternoon they gathered themselves together and headed over to 221B.

After catching up with Mrs. Hudson for an hour, they headed upstairs with the afternoon tea. Not having really seen the Holmes/Hooper duo in several weeks, just the odd call now and then about their latest case; they were more than a bit curious as to how they'd been getting on.

A sleepy Emmalyn Watson seemed to suddenly perk up as the three entered the flat and gave a happy clap at the sight of the two who sat on the couch, both still in their pajamas and dressing gowns. John and Mary's eyebrows both shot up in unison at the sight of them. Their surprise was in part from the fact that it was a little past one in the afternoon and also from the rather close and casual proximity of the pair. Molly sat cross-legged with the laptop and her hair up in a messy bun, while Sherlock lay next to her with his neck resting on the armrest and legs bent with his bare feet tucked snugly under her right thigh. With his eyes shut and his hands folded across his middle, the detective looked the picture of contentment.

Molly paused from her reading to greet the three with a wide smile. "What a surprise!" she said with delight in her voice. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock calmly raised his arms in expectation.

"Exquisite timing Emmalyn Watson…quick, save me from this mind-numbing boredom."

"Hope we're not interrupting anything important," Mary said with a sly smile. "…just wanted to check up on you two."

"Oh, you're not interrupting! We're just trying to catch up on the e-mails. We've fallen behind a bit since the last case…wrapped that one up last night. We finally got proof of the embezzlement but we didn't get back until 3 AM. I'm a bit knackered," she said rubbing her eyes and then her temples with the heels of her hands.

"I'm waiting," he said, gesturing impatiently with his still raised hands. "My god-daughter is much more interesting then these tedious morons."

Emmalyn squealed as her proud father placed his child in Sherlock's arms and the detective grinned as she snuggled into his neck, settling down immediately.

"She's grown…at least a half-pound heavier, I'd say."

John smiled at his daughter and best friend. "Yes…good guess."

"I never guess, John," he said, with a roll of his eyes, which was returned in kind.

"We _need_ to do this, Sherlock. Your inbox is bursting…and you never know, there could be something juicy," the pathologist said with a gleam in her eyes that caused the Watson's to exchange an amused look.

"I haven't left the room Molly Hooper and my ears still work perfectly well. Blather on if you wish. I'll let you know if there is anything worth our time."

The pathologist looked over and couldn't help but smile at man and baby, appreciating the rather unusual sight.

"Yeah, don't let us stop you. I know how frustrating it is to get this git to sort out the e-mails," John said with a smirk.

"Boring," said the man child as he wrinkled his nose.

Molly grinned up at the doctor. "I've really become quite good at scanning out the cases that are under a 4…anything lower than that, I just save my breath."

"If you ask me you're way too good to him, Molly," replied Mary as she poured their tea.

"Excuse me Mrs. Watson, but I _am_ here, present…in the room. I _CAN_ hear you."

Mary's smirk widened as she handed Molly her cuppa. "Oh, good… _since_ you're listening, you need to start appreciating this saint of a woman you have here. Don't take her for granted Sherlock or I may have to hurt you." She smacked him in the leg before turning to get John's mug.

"John, your wife has just assaulted me while holding your infant child."

"I think you'll both live, actually," John countered, winking at Mary as she handed him his tea.

…..

Evidentially the bursting inbox remained as such…at least for a bit longer. The four friends decided to go to dinner at Angelo's, leaving a recently nursed and contented Emmalyn with an equally delighted Mrs. Hudson.

The evening was a much needed diversion for all present, although probably for different reasons. Mary enjoyed some adult conversation, while Molly appreciated the mental breather. As the best friends reveled in their customary verbal sparring, the girls excused themselves for the ladies.

Once in the loo, Mary spun around so fast it made Molly jump. She grabbed her arm and then pulled her into a conspiring huddle.

"So…" Mary said with a lopsided grin.

Molly's questioning eyes took in her friend's expectant posture in confusion. "What?"

"How are… _things_?" Mary asked with a bob of her head.

"Things?" repeated the pathologists, her muddled expression deepening by the second.

Mary rolled her eyes but maintained her Cheshire-catlike grin. "Yeeee-s…you know, _THINGS_ …between you two."

Molly blinked vacantly at her for a second before realizing what she was asking.

"Ooh… _things_ ," she replied, lowering her gaze to the floor, while a blush rose on her cheeks.

This just delighted Mary all the more, as her eyes grew in relation is her smile. She slowly leaned against the vanity as she observed Molly's suddenly shy demeanor.

"The two of you seem…I don't know, closer I guess. But there's something else…"

Molly's eyes shot back up to meet Mary's suddenly thoughtful stare. Over the past several months her more or less uninterrupted time with the detective had been all consuming. There were a handful of times she found herself wondering about Sherlock's…well, feelings. The latest one and to Molly the strongest indication, was waking up in his bedroom under the warmth his blankets. But the very question seemed at odds with who he was and certainly posed a danger to her guarded heart. With the exception of a few weak moments, she had been fairly successful in keeping a tight lid on her feelings.

Mary seemed to sense Molly's hesitation and her eyes softened in sympathy to her friend's reluctance toward the subject. She contemplated her words before carrying on.

"He seems…different."

Molly started looking a bit nervous at Mary's observation and tried to down play its significance.

"Sure, it's only natural though, isn't it?" She shrugged her shoulders and looked back down at her feet. "He's had an awful lot of adjusting to do…in so many ways, Mary."

The expression in Molly's eyes transformed as she contemplated all the challenges he fought to overcome…it was a look of admiration and pride. She looked up to meet her friend's eyes. "He's a most extraordinary man," the pathologist said with a smile.

She couldn't help but think the same about this petite woman who gave so selflessly of herself.

"Just remember one thing, love…" Mary turned and placed both hands on her friend's shoulders and grinned. "He couldn't have done it without _you_."

…..

Soon as the girls had gone to the ladies and was out of sight, John refilled both his wineglass and Sherlock's half empty one.

"So, mate…what do we drink to?" John asked with a smile before raising his glass.

The detective located his glass of red wine and let out a dramatic sigh. "I would assume you already _have_ something in mind, John. You may as well get on with it since you're adamant about participating in this most _vital_ of societal customs."

The doctor looked at his curmudgeon of a friend with irritation and shook his head. "I think we have a lot to be thankful for Sherlock. We could at least take a second to acknowledge that, yeah?"

"Yeees, fine…go ahead. My glass is up, is it not?"

John rolled his eyes before considering his toast. The corners of his mouth twitched into a sly grin before he leaned in slightly to study the detective's imminent reaction.

"To Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's previous hauteur dissolved into something else. For a second John thought he saw what he'd best describe as affection from the detective but a moment later it was replaced with an impassivity that was typical of the man.

"Doctor Hooper," the detective repeated rather tonelessly before taking a quick sip.

 _Oh, no you don't._ John felt emboldened by the slight glimmer of feeling and wasn't going to let it slip by without some sort of inquisition.

"How have things been going, then?"

"Going?"

"Yeah, you know…with Molly?" John grinned into his wine as he took a sip.

Sherlock blinked at his friend but remained unresponsive.

"I mean, I know it had to have been a huge adjustment for you…the way you work. I'm sure it's been a big disadvantage…considering how your brain functions, you know…altering your process to accommodate Molly. It must have been quite a hardship for you. I can imagine it took all of your patience to acclimate to her…level." He impressed himself with the evenness in own his voice.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John's words and he bristled at the doctor's rather unkind implications. He felt decidedly irritated by his comment but he wasn't exactly sure way. After taking a slow sip of wine he placed the glass carefully on the table in front of him.

"There was no _disadvantage_ , Doctor Watson. In fact if anyone's _patience_ was challenged, I'm sure it was on her part…not mine. As for her… _level,_ as you call it; _Doctor_ Molly Hooper has above average intelligence…far more than even _I_ was previous aware. What do they say about _those in glass houses,_ John? If I were you, I'd advise that…"

The detective's carefully modulated voice was interrupted by the approaching conversation of the returning women. Mary's eyes grew at the sight of her husband's amused expression and wordlessly questioned him as they took their seats. He subtly indicated to his wife for a later conversation before addressing Sherlock's response.

"You're right, I'm sorry, mate. Didn't mean to imply…you know," John hastily replied and smiled amiably at the faces in front of him.

"What are we talking about?" Molly asked innocently before taking a sip of her wine.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he took hold of his glass and swallowed a rather copious amount.

"The new normal," said John with a grin and a wink.

Molly looked a tad confused considering the last words spoken but smiled at the doctor's reply.

"Oh…well, we're managing, I guess. What do you think, Sherlock?" the pathologist smiled shyly at the detective by her side.

He opened his mouth to respond but John beat him to it.

"He was singing your praises, actually," said John as his smirk grew into a full smile. "Weren't you, mate?"

The detective closed his eyes briefly as he realized the dilemma his so-called best friend created. Molly tried to hide her shocked expression by looking down and fiddling with the napkin in her lap.

"Um…" Sherlock's brow furrowed as his brain scrambled for an appropriate response. Molly chanced to look up at him through her lashes and he could almost feel the weight of her gaze upon him.

His eyes appeared to be scrutinizing his drink as both is hands wrapped around his glass and his fingers traced its rim.

"Yes…" he said, clearing his throat again. "Molly has been...quite brilliant." He suddenly looked over in her direction with an almost boyish regard that made her stomach flip and her mouth hang open…just slightly.

…..

Insisting that she return to feed Toby, the two ended up at her flat rather late after dinner. In spite of the hour however they both were inclined to take on the inbox once again.

After filling his belly, the cat curled up on Sherlock's reclined form, which was almost his exact position on the couch at Baker Street…except with the addition of a furry feline napping on his chest.

"Sherlock…" Molly frowned, looking at her laptop.

"Mm…"

"Listen to this…Dear Mr. Holmes, I'm writing this in hopes that you'd be able to come to my aid. I'm not sure who to turn to as I'm at a disadvantage due to my young age and my relative isolation. I am currently enrolled as a sixth form student at the Windermere School for the Gifted, although I'm only 15 years old. I am not inclined to involve my parents as I fear for my own safety and do not want to endanger them…"

The detective opened his eyes just a fraction as he listened to the girl's plea.

"…For the last 28 weeks I've been involved with an outreach grant in glycobiology, funded by The British Pharmacological Society. Exactly 6 weeks ago, two of my bioscience professors and I discovered a possible breakthrough in cancer research. Soon after I noticed a strain between the two and later overheard an argument concerning grant procedure. Two days ago one of those professors had died. It was ruled as natural causes but I believe that he was killed by the other teacher. I have tried to hide my suspicions out of fear that I would certainly be next. Please help me Mr. Holmes…this is not a joke or a hoax."

Molly's eyes were large with anxiety as she looked up at the detective.

"She left a cell number, Sherlock."

He slowly sat up causing the disgruntled cat to search for another perch. Hugging his knees to his chest, the man sat with his crystalline eyes shining from the glow of the laptop.

"What are you waiting for Molly Hooper? Ring up the poor girl before she gets herself killed," Sherlock said with a smirk that anticipated the thrill of the hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! Just wanted to say that this next case will not be as drawn out as the last. I've made an effort to keep the details to a minimum because my focus has shifted to the developing feelings of one consulting detective and all the shenanigans that will ensue!
> 
> The scene with the Watsons was not exactly planned...kind of just grew out of the enjoyment of their characterizations. Hope it was believable enough! ;)
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Well, here we go...diving into the depths of another case. I may blind you with science in this one. ;) I am aware that some of you are med students and as I have a deep fascination for the medical sciences, as I've disclaimed before, I am an artist writing science. LOL So it is what it is!

 Amelia Price was her name. To say she was gifted was a gross understatement. Molly knew that this girl, who was little more than a child, had the mark of greatness. They managed to meet at a nearby café and then once more at Baker Street. Having harvested all the details they could from Ms. Price, the two were now on their way to Charing Cross to examine the body of the unfortunate professor. Luckily Molly was acquainted with the head pathologist, so immediate access was possible.

There was a hint of early fog in the air as they made the 15 minute taxi ride over to the hospital. Sherlock sat mute for most of the ride until his baritone suddenly cut the silence.

"So how do you know him then?" the detective asked testily.

Molly's ponytail whipped the side of her face from the sudden turn of her head. "Sorry, what?"

"Your colleague from Charing Cross; how…do…you…know…him?" He sat facing the passing streets of London with his arms crossed and distinct irritation in his voice.

The pathologist frowned at the man's inexplicable tetchiness before answering. "We were teamed together a couple of times for research collaborations over the past…mm…three or so years. Why?"

Sherlock glanced over briefly with a slight scowl before mumbling, "No reason in particular, Doctor Hooper."

…..

Molly stood reading out loud the autopsy report of a Professor Harry Langston in the Charing Cross Morgue. Sherlock stood with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled as he listened to the findings. There was indeed nothing out of the ordinary other than the heart failure of a healthy thirty five year old male. He had no family history of heart disease and was otherwise above average in physical condition.

The pathologist frowned at the body in front of her. "Mm…there is no indication of anything that should have caused this man's death, Sherlock."

"And yet, here he lays, Molly. We must dig deeper. I may have to call Mycroft for this one." He grimaced as he retrieved his phone.

Molly was about to respond when the heavy doors suddenly swung open.

"Molly…you're here!" said the very tall, very ginger and very handsome pathologist.

"Oh, Matt…hi!" Molly turned with a smile and returned the big huge and peck on the cheek the man gave her.

"Gosh, it's great to see you. How long has it been already…a year?" He grinned amiably at the petite woman and gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze.

"At _least_ …" was the grumbly response from the corner of the room. They both turned in Sherlock's direction.

"Um...Matt, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes. I'm assisting him in an investigation involving our teacher here. Sherlock, this is Dr. Matthew Eklund."

The doctor glimpsed the white cane along with the lack of eye contact and looked a bit puzzled.

"Oh…nice to meet you _Mister_ Holmes is it, or are you a police detective?"

"Hardly…I'm a consulting detective…worlds only. The police call _me_ when they need help." Sherlock flashed one of his forced smiles before extending his hand.

The doctor walked over to shake it and they held their grip for a moment as Sherlock scrutinized him with a sightless gaze.

"Um, yes…well, it is good to meet you Mr. Holmes and it's great to see you again, Molly!" said the man with much enthusiasm as he turned in her direction once more.

"It's good to see you too, Matt," she said with a warm smile.

"I know you're here on work, so I don't want to take your time. You've talked with the intern obviously and you have a copy of my report?"

"Yes, I have everything I need…thanks Matt."

"Alright, well…" The doctor grinned at Molly and glanced quickly at Sherlock before retrieving his card from his wallet. "Here…this is my new cell number. Maybe we could get together for a coffee or something," he said with a wink.

Molly was caught off guard from the sudden amorous turn but recovered a second later with a shy smile and a nod.

"Oh, sure…why not?" she replied softly, taking the card and putting it in her coat pocket. She looked at Sherlock but he had turned to mumble into his phone, presumably talking with his brother.

"I need to run but it was wonderful seeing you again," he said bringing her into another quick embrace before turning to go.

"You too, Matt." She grinned, giving him a departing wave as the doors closed behind him.

"Oh!" Molly jumped when she saw that Sherlock was standing just a few centimeters behind her.

"We're done here, Molly. We need to meet Mycroft…he'll be providing us with the necessary credentials to pass as representatives from the BPS. We'll need to find out more about this professor's life and it appeared to be his work."

…..

Appearances were _not_ deceiving in Professor Langston's case. The man had no real family to speak of and his personal life was most definitely centered on his research. The cover as two BPS officials couldn't be more perfect, as the death of a grant recipient and the research itself would be under scrutiny.

The plan was to find out all they could about the dead teacher's daily routine…in and out of the laboratory, which included interviews with Ms. Price and the other secretly suspect faculty member.

After informing their young client of said plan, they set to work on arranging the official review with Professor Meryl Grenway. Molly's impression from talking with the woman was one of serious professionalism yet she seemed eager to be of any help regarding the task before them.

So after a night of deliberation concerning the scope and method of their scheme, they set off the next day for the Windermere School for the Gifted.

…..

Both Molly and Sherlock spent most of the day at the bio labs at Windermere. Professor Grenway proved to be every bit the consummate authority in her field. After an in-depth tour of the facilities at the school they were ushered into her office and were shown a PowerPoint presentation followed by the exhaustive data from their recent discoveries regarding the degree to which cardiac glycosides inhibit cancer cell growth. Molly was fascinated.

While the pathologist focused on the glycobiology, the detective artfully probed the professor's work relationship with her deceased colleague. According to Meryl Grenway, Professor Langston was an intensely focused individual with little time and tolerance for much else other than his science.

Later when they met privately with Amelia they referenced the teacher's narrative with the student's account and there seemed to be no divergences.

"Professor Harry was not unkind. He just had the tendency…to well, get so preoccupied with the research he could forget life's basic necessities." The girl smiled almost fondly at the thought.

"Like what exactly?" the detective inquired with a raised brow.

"Eating and sleeping for one."

This caused Molly to spontaneously cough in order to cover up her amusement. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the pathologist's tactic. It didn't take much brilliance to deduce Professor Langston had certain personality traits that mirrored the detective.

"When we first discovered the correlation to topoisomerase II-inhibiting activity, Professor Harry didn't sleep for 6 days. Professor Meryl tried to get him to rest but he refused. We actually had to inform our director because he just wouldn't listen to us." The girl frowned and shook her head at the memory. "Our bioscience department kind of looked after him. Making sure he ate at least once daily…that sort of thing. Even Professor Meryl made a point of bringing his tea every day," Amelia said with sadness in her voice.

"I am to assume then that the day-to-day schedule was rather regimented?" the detective asked in a clipped tone.

"Yes…It was very important for us to stay disciplined and well organized, especially after our discoveries."

"Fine…then we need to know the rest of the day's activities. We'll not only have to pay a visit to Professor Langston's residence but our good Professor Grenwood's as well."

…..

Within the hour the duo was headed over to the departed teacher's one bedroom flat, the top floor of a brick Edwardian in leafy historic Hampstead. The investigation however yielded nothing to explicate or implicate the cause of his untimely passing.

"This search is generating zero leads, Molly. We need to cut our losses and proceed to Grenwood's flat," Sherlock said impatiently.

"You _actually_ mean breaking and entering, don't you?" asked Doctor Hooper with a little bit of pluck.

"If it eases your conscience any Molly, we will not in fact be burglarizing her, just investigating her," he said with a smirk, as he unfolded his white cane. "Shall we?"

…..

Holmes and Hooper stood outside Professor Meryl's door at Kidderpore Gardens trying to look inconspicuous as the detective picked the lock. Fortunately there was a fairly tall hedge row and a recessed front portico that aided to eclipse their misdemeanor.

Once inside they proceeded to inspect every room. From all appearances Professor Meryl Grenway was a fastidious woman who seemed to naturally maintain a high level of organization and practicality in all aspects of her life, professionally and personally. Her home had a precision to it that was both impressive and oppressive all at once.

"There's a lot of white," Molly added after describing most of the interior of the 2 bedroom row house. As they moved through the hall, towards the rear quarters, Sherlock began to detect a subtle trace of fragrance.

"Do you smell that?"

Molly slowed next to the detective and inhaled deeply. There was a hint of sweetness in the air.

"Yes, I think so…What is it?"

"Not sure…yet. Let's find its source, shall we?" Sherlock said with mounting interest.

They opened a door on their left that led to a lovely sitting room with a large oriel window that faced the rear garden. The projecting bay was filled with an abundance of flowering plants.

Sherlock walked with caution, tapping his cane in front of him as the scent intensified.

"Convallaria Majalis," he whispered. "Lily of the Valley."

Molly joined him by the window and gazed down at the profusion of lush green leaves and beautiful bell-shaped flowers. The shoots varied from a spring green to a variegated leaf with white stripes. Although the flowers were mostly white, there was a spattering of soft pinks and even some with a number of red berries. It was quite a display.

As the pathologist stared at the florae she was suddenly struck with realization.

_The research._

"Sherlock…the grant was focused on this particular species of plant. Although nearly every part of it is poisonous, it can benefit certain heart patients. If it was administered in calculated doses by a person acquainted with its side-effects and toxicity… it could go undetected in a person with a healthy heart unless specifically tested for convallatoxin. Gas chromatography and mass spectroscopy would determine if the glycoside was present and would then expose the actual cause of death."

The detective turned to the pathologist with a distinct air of approval and respect.

"Bravo, Doctor Hooper," he said with a hint of a half-smile. "I believe you just solved our case."

"I did?" she asked with a look of surprise.

"Let's go to the kitchen and see if our overconfident professor left a 'smoking gun'," Sherlock said motioning with his cane.

Sure enough, Molly was able to locate a small tin of dried leaves in the corner of the top kitchen shelf.

"I can't believe she didn't destroy this straight away. It's a bit brash, don't you think?" Molly asked with a shake of her head.

"Apparently our Professor Grenway believed she was superior in cunning and surrounded by guileless underlings. She may have even succeeded if it wasn't for Amelia Price."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew...a bit more to come; perhaps more accurately described as post-case...you'll see. ;)
> 
> Looking forward to all your comments and insights!
> 
> Thank you to the always lovely Writingwife83!


	29. Chapter 29

 

Lestrade secured the evidence after obtained a warrant, which was then taken to the Charing Cross labs for testing, much to the detective's annoyance and Doctor Eklund's delight.

"My, my…twice in as many days," the man said with a bright smile. "You'll spoil me if you're not careful, Molly."

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath before crossing the room and locating a chair with his cane. As he turned and sat down with his arms crossed she could see the unmistakable scowl on the man's face.

_What now?_

She hadn't had the time or the inclination to ask him about his foul mood the last time they were at the hospital. There was obviously something wrong, and she knew she'd have to ask him about it at some point. Meanwhile, she'd have to just try to ignore him the best she could.

_Easier said than done._

Unfortunately the detective wasn't the only one acting odd. Matt was also behaving strangely. He seemed to glance over at Sherlock on a regular basis throughout the testing.

"Mr. Holmes, it may take us a couple of hours before we get the results. You may want to visit our cafeteria…the coffee is actually not terrible," commented Dr. Eklund in a rather forced, good natured tone.

He flashed one of his finest faux smiles before saying, "Thank you, no Doctor…I'm perfectly contented to sit and bask in the brilliance of your work. I am a graduate chemist myself so much of this process is not _completely_ foreign to me."

Molly watched the exchange behind her protective eyewear and knew that if she'd been able to somehow test the testosterone levels in the room, they'd be off the charts.

"Um…I'm going to go ahead and start on the convallatoxin screening…be back in a few," she said before hightailing it to the lab.

…..

As Molly pushed open the morgue doors, she stopped short at the sight of the other pathologist and the consulting detective standing toe to toe.

_Oh, no._

Her return didn't seem to register as they stood facing each other, obviously in the wake of some sort of exchange. She knew that look of smug victory on Sherlock's face. She was unfortunately also acquainted with the expression of shock and mortification that was on Matt's face.

_He's deduced him._

"Um…" She looked from one to the other as she slowly approached the two. "Everything okay?" she asked cautiously.

As if coming out of a spell, Matt blinked several times before he turned and smiled nervously.

"Yeah, yeah…everything's fine. The results are conclusive. The tea was laced with the Convallaria Majalis. Looks like you found your killer."

Molly nodded. "The toxin is present in Professor Langston's blood samples. I guess it's time to make our report."

"Don't let me keep you. I'll just send that to DI Lestrade when I'm done. I have some…things I need to, um…get to in my office, so…but it was good seeing you again, Molly…"

Doctor Eklund quickly shook her hand, backing out through the doors as he gave Sherlock a quick glance.

"Oh…uh, sure, that's fine…good to see…" And then he was gone.

Molly just stood there as the doors swung closed from her colleague's hasty departure. She slowly turned to face the detective, releasing a frustrated sigh.

His brows disappeared under his dark curls with a half-hearted attempt at looking clueless.

"What…just happened, Sherlock?" she asked trying to contain her irritation.

"It would seem that we've managed to solve another case, Doctor Hooper," he said, stepping towards the doors as he unfolded his cane. "I do believe we should expedite the findings to Graham. I think we're done here…come along, Molly."

With that he was gone, leaving her to either follow or to remain standing in an empty morgue. She stared at the stilling doors and hung her head for a moment before trailing the insufferable man to a flagged taxi.

…..

Molly stood brooding in front of her window with a glass of red wine. She let out a long heavy sigh as the crimson liquid swirled around the flute's rim, before taking another sip. She watched the now bare branches of the immense black walnut tree beyond her window sway in the chilled autumn air, while the golden rays of the fading sun colored the streets below her.

She had always loved London, but now she had a much deeper appreciation for the city since…well, since working with Sherlock. Their adventures have taken her places she had never seen and the detective's in depth knowledge of its history made it that much more profound.

These past few months have meant more to her then just exciting exploits, of course. It meant doing what she could, _all_ she could, to save him. And she did…without question.

She also knew there'd be danger…to her heart, specifically. The same issues would present themselves, the same difficulties in establishing and maintaining personal boundaries. Her feelings haven't changed. If anything they've grown deeper…more abiding. She's abandoned all efforts to move on. She no longer had any expectations of liberation. And if she were to be completely honest, she didn't even want to be free to love anyone else. No one could compare to this unattainable genius of a man-child. She knew it. He ruined her for anyone else. For better or for worse, she was prepared to go the distance.

Nevertheless, it was necessary that she not lose sight of her self-worth and try to retain a measure of defense. Self-preservation should not be thrown carelessly to the wind because Sherlock Holmes needed her. As bewitching as that thought was, there still needed to be restrictions. The man could not be allowed free reign over her life. She deserved better.

_Earlier that day…_

In the taxi the git refused to tell her about his exchange with Doctor Eklund. He just sat there, silently, keeping the same air of smugness about him.

She briefly considered just letting it go, but her instincts were telling her that if she _did_ she'd be setting a bad precedent she'd soon regret.

"Sherlock…I want to know," she pressed. "I'd rather hear it from you, then from Matt."

The detective turned marginally in her direction. "I doubt very much you'll manage to hear back from the man, Molly," he said with a hint of a smirk.

It was with that comment that she knew he had crossed the line.

Molly managed with great effort to remain calm, even to process the fact that they would pass her neighborhood on the way to Baker Street, which was his pronounced destination.

Within a couple of blocks of her flat she spoke up.

"Sir, can you please make a right on the corner here and stop at the end of the street?"

The driver complied and as the taxi slowed she handed the man the incurred fare before turning to a now visibly disgruntled Sherlock Holmes.

"Until you show me the proper respect and consideration due me Sherlock, I don't believe we have much more to say to one another."

With that remarkably composed statement, the pathologist exited the vehicle and without sparing a glance, she entered her flat, closing the door behind her.

…..

She continued to watch the cityscape below while nursing her glass of wine, when Toby jumped up on the sill in front of her. She smiled down at the cat's obvious vie for attention as she rubbed his head affectionately.

Molly couldn't help but wonder about the reaction her stand will garnish. Or would there even be one? Perhaps they've reached an impasse. Her heart grieved at the notion of a breach between them. But how would she be able to maintain any healthy level of self-respect if she failed to stick up for herself when he walked on her feelings. While she loved the impossible man, she needed to also love herself.

_One hour previously…_

Sherlock lay on the coach with his back to the room. Although he loathed the idea of reflecting on any potentially 'not good' behavior, the detective found it impossible to ignore Molly's obvious displeasure with him.

As he sulked and sometimes ruminated, the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard…footsteps that he knew were not the preferred light and quick ones of a certain pathologist, but were from a person that he least wanted to speak to at the moment.

He sighed as he heard the indicative tap of an umbrella behind him.

"What do you want, _Mycroft?_ Can't you see that I am busy?" he grumbled over his shoulder.

"Obviously, brother mine. Forgive the intrusion, but I fear I need to intervene."

Sherlock sat up immediately and glared in Mycroft's direction.

" _What_ are you talking about?" he asked in spite of himself.

"The taxi driver that transported Doctor Hooper and yourself from Charing Cross…he's one of mine."

The detective was unresponsive at his disclosure so he carried on.

"He informed me of the…exchange between the two of you."

Mycroft pondered for a moment before turning to walk to the window. He frowned as he considered what he was about to endorse. It was far from what he would choose for himself. Nevertheless he'd come to terms with the reality that his brother had different needs then he did. They were similar in many ways, but when it came to _relationships_ …they diverged considerably. He had to admit that Sherlock was a better man because of them. And it was because of _this_ undisputable fact that he was even there. As he turned to face his fuming brother, he took a deep breath and resolved himself to persuade Sherlock to discern the undeniable.

…..

Toby's purring sounded like a freight train as she rubbed under his fuzzy chin. Molly swallowed her last sip of wine and let out a melancholy sigh as she placed her empty glass on the table beside her. The sun had now set behind the row houses across the street and the trace of golden had turned to a dusky blue.

Just as she was about to turn away from the window she glimpsed a long black car as it slowed to a stop directly opposite her front door. Her eyes got wide as the open door revealed the dark curly hair of the consulting detective. With his cane he careful stepped onto the pavement and navigated to her entry steps and door without a problem. She was surprised to hear the doorbell buzz a moment later as she expected him to just pick her lock. After buzzing him in she stood in the open threshold listening to Sherlock's approaching footfalls.

As he climbed the steps to the second floor he tapped the landing once before turning to face the pathologist who stood stock still at the end of the corridor. His expression told her that he was aware of her presence and he stopped a meter short of her doorway.

"Don't you find it a bit foolhardy to buzz in an unknown party, Molly Hooper?"

" _Yees,_ I do. However in your case, I saw you coming from my window…Sherlock Holmes," she said in a tense manner, with her arms crossed in front of her.

He opened his mouth to respond but apparently thought better of it. Instead the man opted to stand with his leather clad hands poised on the white cane and frown at her in the hallway.

"Am I than to assume that you will let me in?"

"Don't you find it a bit foolhardy to assume _anything_ at this point?" she said with a forced austerity, which she apparently failed to pull off due to the ghost of a smile on the detective's face.

With a rather loud sigh she moved aside to admit the detective.

"Come on…" she said in a small voice. She closed her eyes briefly as he passed her, catching the familiar scent of him.

_I hope I don't regret this._

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Writingwife83...you're truly spectacular!

She stood watching the detective as he slowly removed his gloves, scarf and coat. He laid them on the entry hall chair beside his cane and turned to face the small pathologist, inhaling a deep breath before taking one step forward in her direction.

Looking down towards his shoes and clasping his hands behind his back, Sherlock again opened his mouth to speak but wordlessly closed it a moment later, appearing to be uncharacteristically hesitant as he faced Doctor Molly Hooper.

"Can I…join you as you imbibe in your second glass of wine?"

She frowned at him as she looked over at her empty glass. "How did…?"

He pointed to his nose with a small half-smile before turning toward her sofa.

Molly rolled her eyes as she reclaimed her flute and shuffled over to the kitchen to retrieve the wine and a second glass.

As she poured their wine she glanced over at him just in time to see Toby jump up and let out a loud meow as way of greeting or warning, she wasn't quite sure. She smirked as the man glowered at the feline, but extended his hand to meet the cat's head. Toby leaned into his touch and flopped down beside him, contented with the attention he was getting.

"Traitor," she mumbled under her breath as she headed into the sitting room with their drinks.

Plunking down both glasses on the coffee table in front of them, Molly seated herself next to the detective, tucking her legs under her and smoothed her hair nervously over one shoulder.

She waited.

Sherlock stroked Toby's head another couple of seconds before turning halfway in his seat to face the tiny woman. Clearing his throat, he reached over to locate the table edge and carefully laid hands on the two glasses of wine and offered Molly hers as he took a tentative sip of his own.

She blinked at it twice before taking it from him but instead of drinking it she just gripped it with both hands, resting it on her lap in front of her.

Again…she waited.

"I wanted to…apologize," he said in a muted tone. "I realize that I…" Sherlock's brow knitted as he paused, lowering his glaze to his hands. He released a huffy breath and looked up to the ceiling as he reflexively drummed his fingers on his knee.

Clearing his throat yet again, Molly tried to contain her amusement as she hid a tiny smirk behind her glass of wine.

"Really Molly, must you be so… gratified at my discomfort," he complained with a raised eyebrow.

"Um, yes, actually. But how did you…?" she said as her smirk widened.

"I can feel it," he uttered before taking a rather long sip.

_Huh…that's new._

"Right then…" she said expectantly.

"What?"

"The apology, Sherlock…" she urged in a laughing tone.

"Ah…yes. Right." He blinked several times before taking another sip, which prompted a small chuckle from the pathologist.

Sherlock tried to look affronted at the mirth his awkwardness had inspired. But when his expression caused her giggle to grow, his offended guise cracked into a slow grin and his eyes twinkled at the sound of her laughter.

As she settled down she took another sip and they sat together in a passing, easy silence.

"I _am_ sorry," he said in a soft voice. Molly's heart ached when she saw the sincerity in his eyes.

" _Now_ will you let me in on what you've done exactly?" Molly said as she shifted to lean her right side against the back of the sofa.

Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing his confession. Molly smiled again as the detective reminded her of a little boy who was about to admit to a misdeed.

"I couldn't deduce him."

Molly's smile faded as she saw a look of defeat cloud over the man's features.

His admission hung heavy in the air until she spoke.

"Tell me," she encouraged softly.

She watched him clinch his jaw as he searched for the words that she knew was difficult for him to express.

"Eklund…I couldn't deduce him." He paused to take another sip of wine.

"Well…except for the obvious of course. Born in Norfolk although both parents came from central Sweden, most likely near Sundsvall…Swedish being his first language until about 4 or 5. Had a slight stammer until the age of 8…possibly 9. Went to Uni in Northern England, most likely Wolverhampton, but took his residency in Edinburgh. Sustained some sort of knee injury to his left leg, perhaps to the medial collateral ligament…I would assume from some team athletics, football or more likely, ice hockey. Has quit smoking; currently using a nicotine replacement therapy…of the gum variety…presumably 3 to 6 months ago, indicated by the strength of the odor, hence the dosage. He plays some form of stringed instrument, _doubtlessly_ the guitar, acoustic and/or electric."

Molly sat staring at the man for a moment, before she found her voice.

"Wait…you just told me you _couldn't_ deduce him, didn't you?"

"All those things are trifling, Molly…inconsequential. Nothing that told me what I _needed_ to know."

"Well, what was it that you wanted to know. What was so important?"

Sherlock's brow creased as he considered his answer. His mouth set in a hard line, while swirling what was left in his glass.

"He was… _interested_ in you." Sherlock lowered his gaze as he shifted to place the glass back on the table and leaned his elbows on his knees.

Molly followed suit with her glass; she then repositioned herself and brought one knee up, hugging it to her chest while folding the other leg in front of her, behind her ankle.

"I managed to deduce that one myself actually," she replied, finding her foot suddenly fascinating, she fiddled with the hem on her trouser leg, feeling a bit shy.

"Mm…of course you did," he said with a fleeting smile that seemed to echo uncertainty.

She remained quiet, knowing there was more to follow and he frowned while searching for the words. When he spoke his hands motioned in frustration, as he hunched over, his arms resting on his legs.

"I had always been able to _see_ it… _all_ of it. With the exception of Moriarty, of course. There was rarely a…suitor of yours that left me…unresolved. It irritated me…not _knowing_ for sure if…"

The detective paused, seemingly at a loss for words as he glared sightlessly ahead of him.

"If what, Sherlock?" she asked in a whisper.

He swallowed discernibly while his scowl deepened as he considered his answer and when he spoke his voice was so low she would have missed it if she was any more than a meter away.

"If he…was worthy of you."

She tried to stay focused and objective; to regard only the specifics he was explaining to her. But as much as she tried, her gut was telling her the same thing she felt so undeniably when she awoke in Sherlock's bedroom.

_He cares._

There was so much she could say to this extraordinary statement. So much she wanted to ask him. Things she knew would make him cringe. So she did what the man himself trained her to do…she endeavored to obtain the facts.

"How was it then that you…resolved the matter?"

He slowly glanced up in her direction with a look of what she'd best describe as embarrassment.

"Mycroft."

Molly's eyes grew as the reality settled in. She knew all too well how difficult it was for him to ask for his brother's intervention. Had he been that worried for her; so very concerned that he'd involve Mycroft?

There was a weighty silence between them before she finally asked, "Am I to suppose then that he didn't…pass muster?"

"Let's just say that Doctor Eklund has family back in Sweden that is not related to him by blood."

_Married…of course._

She let out a cynical snort as she shook her head. Sherlock sat with a penetrating look, trying to determine the pathologist's true state of mind.

Recognizing his concern, she smiled at the man who allegedly had no heart and replied with an impish grin, "I never really looked at him in that way…you know, romantically. I was a bit stunned when he began…" She paused.

"Sending overtures?" he said with a wrinkled nose, which provoked Molly to giggle.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it that," she said with a smile.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back with a much more relaxed countenance. She mirrored his posture as she rested her head against the softness of the sofa. As she considered the man in front of her, Molly settled on speaking her mind while she had the opportunity.

"Um, you know…It wasn't the loss of a date with Matt that made me so upset, Sherlock."

His smirk faded at Molly's statement, knowing full well that the conversation was not completely behind them.

"No?'

"No."

"Ah."

She sighed internally, as she knew she'd have to elaborate a bit more. She decided that she'd press on nonetheless; figuring that she may never get a better chance.

"It's more to do with the fact that you…just decided to do these things on your own, yeah? With no real thought of what I may think or feel about the matter."

She spoke in a calm steady tone hoping her lack of fluster would play to her advantage. He didn't look like he was about to flee so she carried on.

"It's as if you didn't even consider my…rights at all, like I'm a child who needed to be…safeguarded and spared the reality of the 'big bad' world. It shows a lack of…respect; I guess is the word that comes to mind." She said this last bit with her eyes downcast and her hands picking at her sleeve.

"It's not to say I don't appreciate your…concern," she said frowning at the fabric. "I understand that… _unusual_ precautions are often needed to protect those who you lo…for your friends." Molly's cheeks started to redden as she realized what she was about to say. Not that she was fooling the detective, of course. But things were awkward enough without that word hanging in the air.

"It'd be better perhaps if you would voice your…misgivings. Just speak to me, Sherlock. At the very least when it comes to… _personal_ things, like this. The point is…" Molly took a deep breath before continuing. "It would have been my decision. The sign of a good friend is _respecting_ their decision even when you don't agree with it."

The man listened but was obviously perplexed.

"And if the occasional coffee culminated into something more serious, wouldn't you have preferred my intervention on your behalf subsequently saving you the pain?"

He blinked at her as his glower deepened. "Molly, I _am_ sorry to tell you but whomever you decide to…embark on a serious relationship with will have to endure the Holmes scrutiny. In as much as I loathed going to my brother, he thankfully gave me no misery determining our Dr. Eklund's rectitude or lack thereof, which consequently is evidence that your safety is also important to Mycroft, God help you."

Molly looked at Sherlock's earnest expression and silently marveled at his obvious worry for her well-being. In as much as it touched her, she needed to try her best to get him to understand. So she soldiered on.

"I admit that I wouldn't want to stay ignorant or bury my head in the sand regarding something like that. At the same time a covert investigation and ultimate sabotage, all the while revealing nothing, was not the way to handle it. You've mentioned…on more than one occasion, that you… _trust_ me. Is this still true?"

"What does _that_ have to do with any of this, Molly?" he asked impatiently.

"A lot actually, because if you really do trust me then you'd trust my judgement. I deserve the opportunity to make my own decisions, _even_ if they prove to be mistakes sometimes. I'll always listen to your view, Sherlock. I respect you too much not to. I was just hoping you'd trust and respect me enough to be straightforward."

She could see that what she was saying was starting to have an effect so she concluded with what she hoped would make the difference.

"You know, I distinctly remember you bristling at your brothers… _meddling_ , I think you like to call it. He obviously does it because he cares and has your best welfare in mind. Why do you get so upset with him?"

"Because he oversteps his authority, Molly. I am my own person, who finds his prying intrusive and…"

Suddenly Sherlock froze in mid-thought as a look of shock settled on his face; she saw the restrained horror as he took a minute to verbalize his trepidation.

"Don't…tell me that I am… _your_ Mycroft."

Managing to suppress a giggle at the detective's expense, Molly Hooper just smiled, enjoying her small victory. She was able to incite in the man something she had once believed unlikely… a little something called empathy.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you wonderful people!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Arienhod and Mychakk for their early suggestions about the press. You both have been so faithful in your comments and support; thanks again!

His violin was in the throes of a lugubrious lento as the detective played Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen.

Sherlock needed to think. This…was _not_ his area.

Reluctantly, he had admitted to himself that he _does_ in fact, care for his pathologist. She had always mattered and had always counted…but he had convinced himself that it was solely in the context of his work. But in light of the glaring evidence that has presented itself, he had to acknowledge how…important she was to him, not just to his profession but to _him_ …personally.

The detective had to concede albeit grudgingly that Mycroft's visit had played a role in persuading the man of his…bond…with Doctor Molly Hooper. His brother, as exasperating as he can be, knows how to…speak his language, as it were.

He presented the unadulterated facts and Sherlock was hard pressed to find flaw in his reasoning. He submitted an account of not _only_ her value through the years to his work, but how the benefit of her support and concern had not only saved his life but had been a positive influence, similar to his friendship with John Watson.

This coming from a man who had no 'goldfish' of his own was interesting to say the least. Mycroft encouraged a swift reconciliation with the woman as to not antagonize her and exacerbate the situation. He agreed…internally of course; not wanting to give his brother any satisfaction. He'd prefer to be on Molly's good side; hence the later visit to her flat.

He recalled the initial discomfort of the apology dissipating rather quickly due to her overall temperament and good nature. He realized that apologizing to Molly never really proved that arduous…surprisingly. It actually felt… _good_ making amends with her. Other than to John for the fake suicide, she was really the only one he'd felt compelled to offer such banalities.

So fine…she was important. Her happiness and well-being was also important to him. He frowned as he remembered the near panic he felt at the inadequacy of his deductions of Matt Eklund. The ferocity of protectiveness overrode any aversion he felt from involving Mycroft. That alone was rather noteworthy.

Then there was the cupboard.

Sherlock stilled with his bow poised over the strings. He let his arms drop slowly to his sides as the alarming but lovely sensations came rushing back, provoked by the memory which had been tucked away in his mind palace.

He inhaled deeply from the recollection, willing himself to put aside the _feelings_ and concentrate on the contexts surrounding them, the source from which they sprung. He was not going to deny that the physical proximity of the woman had been one cause. Recalling the previous incidents involving their physical contact and his involuntary reaction to them was undeniable.

But there was something else…something novel to his usual predispositions. It was the ease in which he found himself when talking about his past…his childhood in particular. He had never been inclined to delve into that part of his life. He had never identified the value in it. Nevertheless he was not only _willing_ to evoke said memories but curiously enough, he had discovered that he actually enjoyed talked with her about them.

As the detective ruminated about these things he became painfully aware of his attachment to Molly Hooper. He was irrefutably… _involved_. He let the reality of it settle in as he raised his bow once again to play Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte.

So what of this offensive comparison to Mycroft? Molly obviously felt the same _irritation_ that he himself experiences at his brother's intrusive meddling. The appraisal was disturbing, but nevertheless conclusive.

This being said he had no intention of backing off. At least not in respects to her safety. So then was this a matter of _brotherly_ concern? The notion of filling the role of 'brother' to Molly Hooper felt…erroneous at best.

He recalled the sick feeling he felt when he first heard Eklund's obvious regard. The man's attraction to his pathologist was so apparent it was nauseating…literally. But why was this aversion to his advances so very palpable? It was present from the beginning, _before_ his duplicity came to bare.

If he were completely honest with himself he didn't believe that the aversion to their possible romantic association would have eased, _even_ if the man had indeed 'passed muster' as Molly called it.

Sherlock's brow creased at the conceivable grounds for such a reaction. A particularly distasteful motive began forming and did _not_ sit well with his sensibilities. Not well at all.

_Jealousy._

Was it possible? In light of his long held dogma of staying emotionally and relationally detached, could this really be the truth behind his response to Dr. Eklund's attentions?

The question caused a sudden fatigue in the detective and he abruptly dropped the violin to his chair and retired to his bed. As he lay in the twilight of his slumber, the smiling vision of Molly Hooper appeared before him in crystal clarity. And if anyone had seen his face they would have assumed he was enjoying a most pleasant dream indeed.

…..

The next day Molly had arrived slightly before her usual hour. Having her own key at that point the pathologist let herself in to find 221b silent as the grave. Mrs. Hudson was apparently still on her morning errands and Sherlock…well, she wasn't quite sure _where_ he was. She had called for him while removing her coat and scarf but heard no answer. Molly peeked into his bedroom after a quick knock but found no sign of the detective.

Shrugging her shoulders she decided she may as well get to work. So after settling down with her morning tea Molly began perusing the e-mails. A little over an hour later she had categorized all the cases near twos and threes at best. She knew Sherlock wouldn't be happy. She was partly relieved however to have a down day. Lately there had been a bombardment of cases and the press had become increasingly aware of the new normal.

At the time of the injury Mycroft had done remarkably well in keeping his brother's blindness off their radar. Sherlock refused to even consider dealing with any public scrutiny at the time; justifiably so. He had enough to adjust to as it was. But since the details of the Hockley case broke, it seemed inevitable that the press would eventually sniff out the truth. An official statement was carefully crafted and released soon after and Molly found herself unwittingly in the limelight. However due to Mycroft's ever looming influence over the powers that be, they were thankfully _not_ prisoners at Baker Street. There were never any stake-outs at their front doors or waiting mobs on the sporadic visits to Bart's.

There _was_ however an interesting e-mail from a rather nefarious member of the press; at least in Doctor Hooper's view she was, the tarnished Kitty Riley.

Molly's eyes narrowed at the first sight of it. "Of all the brazen…" she huffed under her breath. She considered just deleting it straight away but since it was technically not _her_ e-mail she decided to at least read it and then delete it; her conscience would be clear.

Kitty started out apologizing for her role in the Moriarty debacle. She admitted to being totally taken in by Richard Brooks and had paid dearly for it, professionally and personally. As she read the journalist's words Molly could feel her anger rise. She went on to say that she'd been following his recent cases and had been happy to hear of his success in the face of the tragic loss of his sight (her words). Lastly Ms. Riley invited the detective to meet, at a location of his choice, for an opportunity to make amends.

In closing she wrote:

_**I realize Mr. Holmes that there is no reason whatsoever for you to give me this chance, other than out of benevolence. If you are at all inclined to respond in favor to my request I would be completely at your service and in your debt. Sincerely, Kitty Riley** _

Molly sat staring at the screen with a set jaw and clinched fists, currently waging an internal battle on whether to delete it or not. She went as far as selecting it but stopped herself before she could press delete. She slouched with her left elbow on the desk, her chin leaning on the supported hand. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she felt a headache coming on as she scowled at the computer some more, finding that she was suddenly in a foul mood.

Just then she heard the sound of the door downstairs and the distinctive gait of the consulting detective could be heard ascending the stairs.

"Ah, Molly…you _are_ prompt this morning," he said with a smirk as he hung up his coat and scarf.

"Actually, Sherlock, I've been here for over an hour already. Where've you been?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Just a couple of…errands," he said with a slight hesitation. "Any tea left?"

"Um, yeah…probably still warm too." The pathologist frowned at his uncharacteristic response.

 _Errands?_ She had never known him to go on a run for…anything really. She had a hard time picturing him at Tesco and the like. Besides that, there was no evidence of any parcels in tow.

As the detective returned warming his hands with the hot cuppa, he lowered himself onto the couch and took a long sip.

Molly watched him with a suspicious eye until it got the better of her and said, "What have you been up to Sherlock Holmes…errands, my arse."

The man brows shot up and he peered at her behind his steaming mug.

"Care to deduce me then, Molly Hooper?" he said as he lowered his tea to reveal a roguish grin.

Molly's eyes widened at the man, who if she didn't know any better would say was flirting with her.

He casually crossed his long legs and leaned back into the couch with his tea perched on his knee, apparently awaiting her determination of his whereabouts.

Internally she made a half-hearted attempt at inferring some clue off his person but gave up moments later, blowing a frustrated breath up to an errant strand of hair from her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her.

His eyes twinkled at her as he took another sip and she thought she heard a low chuckle. When he seemed to sense her glowers deepen he cleared his throat and leaned forward, his arms on his legs and his hands clutching the cup in front of him.

"I actually do have a…confession of sorts. I feel inclined to tell you this…in light of our recent conversation." He frowned into his cup.

Molly seemed to mirror his expression as she waited for him to continue, with not a clue as to where this was going.

"I…received a phone call, a little over a week ago," he said glancing up briefly before resuming. "From Collin."

Molly blinked at him several times before responding. "You mean, fight club Collin?" Molly asked slightly confused.

"Yes, Molly, from fight club."

"Okay, so what did he want? Don't tell me he wants you to fight again, Sherlock. Because if that's the case then I…"

"He called for _you_ actually," interrupting her in a rather firm tone of voice.

"Sorry, what?" she breathed, not sure she heard right.

 


	32. Chapter 32

"For you…he called for you. He still had the number I gave him and thought that I could relay the message to you."

"What message then?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, looking enormously uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"He…wanted to know if you were interested in…going out sometime…with him." Sherlock all but forced the words out and Molly could tell he was hard pressed to be in the middle of this sort of thing.

Molly looked down at her hands with a small smile and she could feel her cheeks flush at the idea of Collin talking to Sherlock about her.

"What on earth did you say?"

"He had left a message actually."

"A week ago?"

"Mm…ten days ago."

"Okay…"

"I'm telling you _now_ because of our talk…trust…respect. I was listening," he said with a little nod and a purse of his lips as he gripped his cup a bit tighter.

Her eyes searched his face as her smile grew.

"So I guess your initial response was…not to give me the message then."

Sherlock looked up briefly and then frowned back at his tea.

"I…had decided against it, yes."

"Why?"

There was no immediate response, so Molly pressed on.

"I mean, I was under the impression that Collin was a good sort of bloke. A little rough around the edges perhaps, but still you seemed to…respect him in a way."

He gazed straight ahead with a blank expression but was tensing his jaw throughout the conversation.

The detective sprung up suddenly, stepping on and over the coffee table with his cup in hand. Walking to the kitchen, he dumped his tea into the sink and circled back to stand in front of the small pathologist.

"Collin is…fine, if you like that type. I'm certain he'd treat you with the respect you deserve. If you _are_ interested, Molly, I'll pass along his number."

Sherlock took his phone and tossed it to the desk where she sat. "If you don't mind, I'm in need of a hot shower and then once we've reviewed the inbox, I'd like to take you somewhere…Hereford to be exact. I know it's a bit of a drive so I've acquired one of Mycroft's cars. At least we'll be comfortable."

Molly's head was spinning from his rapid-fire, running commentary, and before she could respond he had vanished into the loo.

She tried to process all that had just occurred from the time that tornado of a man came in and disturbed her bad temper. Smiling to herself at his attempt at 'trying', she couldn't help feeling the whole Collin thing was a bit bizarre.

Just then Sherlock's mobile dinged from an incoming text. The talking interface began reciting the message as Molly sat listening.

**Good seeing you again, mate…and no hard feelings. I'd keep her to myself too. Glad to see you finally got your head out of your arse and realized what you have. Good luck and if things don't work out, feel free to give her my #. Cheers! -Collin**

Molly's hands started to shake a bit as she picked up the phone and stared at it like it just came down from Mars. She swallowed thickly as her mind raced to comprehend what she just heard.

_He went to Nocturne. That was his errand. He went to tell him that…_

Molly's hand flew to her mouth as she considered the only possible explanation. Her eyes clouded with tears as she struggled with the reality that Sherlock Holmes not only cared for her but was… _interested_ in her. At least that's what he _must_ have told Collin. As the thoughts pervaded her mind, doubts started creeping in as well.

_What if he just told him that to put him off. But why? If he didn't have feelings for me, why would he do it?_

Just saying it in her head was enough to get her heart pumping. _Sherlock has feelings for me. Real…bloody romantic feelings._

In as much as her head was telling her it was true; in view of all the evidence that had presented itself over the past several months, her heart was putting up a fight. It just didn't seem real. The man was married to his work. Truly opening herself to the hope that Sherlock returned her affections was a risky venture.

Molly placed the mobile back down on the desk before rising to her feet. Wandering over to the window she absent-mindedly clutched her heart which seemed to swell and ache all at once as the pathologist continued to entertain the prospect of her and Sherlock…together.

Just then something dawned on her. She ran over to the man's phone and deleted the message from Collin. Feeling a twinge of guilt for the uncharacteristically brash act, she consoled herself with the fact that it insured that he never discovered she knew what she knew.

Molly began rubbing her head, feeling her headache intensify. Sitting herself heavily down into John's chair she closed her eyes just for a moment trying to ease her anxiety.

…..

The rest bit was far too brief as she became aware of the detective moving from the loo to his bedroom and soon heard him approach the sitting room. She squeezed her eyes tighter as the pain in her head suddenly spiked and she released a soft groan.

"Molly?" Sherlock frowned down at the woman as she rubbed her temples. "What's wrong?"

"Mm…bit of a headache."

"More than a _bit_ I would say; you were moaning for god's sake and I've run out of Paracetamol."

"Mm…Mrs. Hudson?"

"Nope…took the tube to Chiswick to visit a friend. I have a better idea anyway…come here."

Peering through her fingers that were still rubbing her forehead, she squinted one eye open to see the detective sit opposite her and pat the space of leather chair between his knees. Her scowl deepened with more confusion than pain as she rose slowly to her feet.

"Um…not sure what you want me to do, Sherlock," she mumbled in hesitation as she stepped forward.

"I said…come here, Molly." He reached out and pulled her towards him, carefully rotating her around so his hands were gripping her shoulders as he gently drew her down to share the seat directly in front of him with his knees on either side of her. Her hands landed naturally on said knees for an instant before she shifted them to the wide armrests.

The shock from their sudden closeness just deepened as she felt his cool fingertips make contact along her temples and with a firm pressure and tiny circular motions, he gradually moved his fingers up along her hairline until they meet in the middle of her brow, massaging the entire forehead and scalp as he inched along.

Placing his thumbs under Molly's eyebrows, he started at the inside corner of each eye socket. Pressing and gently moving his thumbs in tiny circles, he worked slowly towards the outsides of her eyebrows and continued this movement all around her eyes, ending back at the bridge of her nose.

"There is a pressure point between the eyebrows. It's connected to the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland responsible for the production of melatonin. Appling pressure should provide some relief," Sherlock said in an oddly quiet tone.

In spite of Molly's climbing heart rate her body started to relax; the pain beginning to ebb under his administrations. The tension in her upper body began to drain as he tilted her head to one side, lowering her ear towards her shoulder, allowing the weight of her head to provide a natural stretch for the neck muscles and did the same on the other side until both sides of her neck felt relaxed.

Then he gently brought Molly's head forward dropping her chin to her chest to stretch the back of her neck muscles.

Repeating this stretch in the opposite direction, she dropped her head back; looking up at the ceiling she felt her body fight the natural urge to ease herself against him. Sensing this, he pulled her gently back.

"Relax Molly; lean on me…it's fine," he said as his fingertips began to massage up and down her neck.

"There are trigger points in the sternocleidomastoid muscle, located in the front of the neck, which can refer pain into the forehead while the upper end of the sternal division commonly refers pain to the occipital ridge and to the top of the head."

Molly listened to his calm clinical analysis as she drifted into an almost dream-like state. She felt as if her body was melting against his, as his touch continued to decrease all remaining tension.

"There are also triggers in the clavicular division and in the upper portion of the sternocleidomastoid that can refer pain to the forehead and the posterior of the ear," he said almost whispering this time as he moved his fingers out towards her ears, slowly massaging around them.

In her fog of total tranquility and loveliness she was aware of the man's soothing baritone getting closer to the periphery of her face. So near in fact that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

The enchanting sensation caused her hands to search out their previous contact with the outside of his legs which produced a sudden intake of breath from the detective as his fingertips began to massage the base of her skull on either side of her neck.

Her senses were in such a state of exquisiteness that she released a long satisfied breath. Her own fingers began to tingle as they slowly traveled over his knees.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed from Molly's gentle touch and he closed the small space between them feeling the softness of her cheek against his. She started to turn her face toward his when…

"You-whooooo, up there… hello, hello? Sherlock dear, are you in?" Jolted back to reality they both shot up and out of the chair, unaware that they were still holding onto each other. But as Mrs. Hudson opened the door Molly darted away just in time before the older lady came rushing in.

"You wouldn't believe it but I didn't get further then Turnham Green station when we were stopped…just sitting there for over two hours. Problems caused by signal failure, they said finally… after what seemed to be an eternity, let me tell you. Sorry souls the lot of us. We even lost power for a time. Sat in complete darkness with a group of strangers…not very reassuring at all. We gave a little cheer when they moved us back to Goldhawk Road where we were just left to find our way. I found a taxi not before too long, thankfully. What an ordeal! I need to call my friend and postpone our visit. Are you two alright? You look a bit, I don't know…out of sorts," she said with a frown and a wave of her hand.

"Fine!" they said in unison, which inspired an odd look from Mrs. Hudson before turning to go back downstairs.

They stood there motionless for a second before Molly spun around and asked, "Hereford, you say?"

"Yes! Hereford! Now…would be good," said the man with an affirming nod as he sidestepped her to get to his coat and scarf.

The Pathologist followed suit and soon they were descending the stairs from 221b and climbing into the waiting car on their way to Herefordshire.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow…This chapter has really taken it out of me, but I wanted to get the details right. It's the longest chapter thus far so hopefully that's a good thing!
> 
> We'll find our duo in a different sort of locality in this one. Forgive me if you find this rather OOC for our detective. My argument to that view is based in the shifting of Sherlock's perceptions. Without his sight-centric lifestyle I believe there'd be such a vacuum, he'd be compelled to fill it and expand his horizons.
> 
> So with this in mind, I ask that you suspend your disbelief and just go with the flow. ;D

 

Molly viewed the passing of the late autumn landscape. Most of the trees had now shed the last vestige of their splendor, giving way to the prevailing hues of golden browns, as the more rural side of England rushed past her window.

Sherlock sat in perfect stillness beside her, his eyes closed and his features composed and sedate. She wondered what was taking place in that impossibly brilliant head of his. Molly did know one thing for certain, things _were_ changing between them. She was sure of it now. She just wasn't sure how far the detective was willing to go in this alteration. She wasn't even really sure if he was fully aware of it himself. His modus operandi was to analyze and dissect most everything, all with the exception of emotion, or at least when it came to his own. He certainly understood it in the context of psycho-analysis and felonious impulses, just not so much from his own perspective.

This put her heart in an _extremely_ precarious position. What was she to do now? Did she just follow his lead, regardless of where she might end up, with no sense of prudence or care? To say she was torn would be an understatement...to say the very least. What if he eventually had second thoughts or even the more common and mundane likelihood, if it just didn't work between them? Would their friendship survive? Would her _heart_ survive?

She turned to look at the man once more and reflected on how far he had come, how he had modified and adjusted in order to rebuild his life. Could this new life accommodate yet another change, one as transforming as…love?

…..

From almost the moment they entered the car Sherlock had closed his eyes in order to think. He knew that she would respect his space and take the hint that he needed time to appraise this most recent close encounter with his pathologist. As he replayed the incident in his mind palace he was a bit surprised to find no feelings of regret or unease connected to it. The only instance of a negative nature was of course Mrs. Hudson's unexpected appearance. Other than that, he found the whole experience…quite _intriguing_ to be honest.

He recalled the strong impulse he felt when he learned of her pain and discomfort. The almost visceral reaction to help her was immediate and unquestionable. At this point asking why was a waste of time and brain power. He knew he cared for her, so there laid the answer. He knew he could help, so he did, simple as that.

The intriguing part was how he _felt_ helping her. How he didn't want to stop… _helping_. He recalled how he felt when she touched him. How he wanted more. And he was sure things would have escalated if Mrs. Hudson hadn't returned when she did. He remembered how close they were…how close Molly's face was to his. He could feel his heart starting to race at the memory of feeling her resting against him and how much he wanted to just wrap his arms around her.

He willed himself to calm his pulse rate and choose to instead focus on earlier events.

Predictably, his talk with Collin had been initially awkward and he found that the man wasn't too surprised when Sherlock admitted to his…affections toward a certain pathologist. In fact he seemed mildly amused, much to the detectives chagrin. The meeting ended however on friendly terms, with an open invitation for a rematch whenever he liked. In the end he was glad he had gone.

Sherlock realized he needed to tell her about his message. But then the repercussions of said confession plagued him the whole night. He couldn't honestly tell her that Collin was unsuitable. In fact, the very idea of the man's _suitability_ caused such unease in his mind that he knew he needed to act. To what end, he wasn't entirely sure. The idea of just confessing to Molly that he felt something for her beyond friendship and he'd prefer she'd blow off all other advances until he figured it out seemed…well, a tad presumptuous. It's not to say he hadn't been that audacious in the past but he had been trying to be more mindful of her feelings and certainly since the recent 'talk' of respect and trust he needed to make an extra effort. Because she _did_ matter to him and he was just beginning to recognize the true depth of that statement.

…..

"We're here, Molly."

She woke to the sound of Sherlock's voice and a brief but gentle stroke to her cheek, realizing she had once again fallen asleep on the man's shoulder.

The car slowed at the central entrance of a massive polychrome brick structure with steep stepped gables and wrought-iron finials dating back to the Victorian era. Once they exited the vehicle she noticed a rather diminutive bronze sign that read The Royal National College for the Blind.

_Oh_. She wasn't exactly sure why they were here, but she was definitely intrigued.

"I've never been here myself Molly, so you'll need to be my eyes yet again." He smiled briefly and extended his left hand, opting to keep his cane in his coat for the time being. She laced her small fingers through his long cool ones and gave his hand a squeeze before turning to guide them through the large arched double doors with a smile on her lips.

The interior still had much of the original architecture, such as the chamfered ceiling beams and the stone fireplaces. But it was also to a great extent contemporary, an institute for learning that reflected design following function with respect to the needs of the visually-impaired.

Once in the doors they stood in the large reception area, "Sherlock…this is very interesting but…"

"Ah, Mr. Holmes?" inquired a rather striking Asian woman.

"Yes, _Sherlock_ Holmes and this is Doctor Molly Hooper; Katherine Kumar, I presume?" The detective extended his hand as she strode towards them from the information kiosk.

"Yes, pleased to meet you both. We've been expecting you." She shook their hands with a nod and a friendly smile. "If you follow me, I'd be happy to escort you to the gallery."

_Gallery? Huh._

"Where are you taking me, Sherlock?" she whispered with an inquisitive but pleased tone.

He smirked with a satisfied air but revealed nothing as they followed Ms. Kumar down the long corridor. Molly rolled her eyes at the obvious pleasure the man won from his mysterious schemes, but found herself grinning in spite of it all.

As they approached the double doors at the end of the hallway her eyes strained to read the sign that revealed their destination.

It read: **_The Blind Art Permanent Collection._**

Molly blinked at the sign. "Really?" she blurted inadvertently. Her hand covered a shy smile as she glanced up at the detective beside her. "Sorry I…"

Their escort turned and grinned at her apparent surprise. "One of our missions here at the college is to demonstrate to the handicapped, as well as the able-bodied, that many barriers, whether real or imagined can be overcome. This exhibit challenges us to re-evaluate what constitutes visual art by showcasing exceptional work by artists, both visually impaired and sighted."

Molly found herself totally absorbed as Ms. Kumar continued with her exposition.

"As a society we've come to view art through a restricted modus. Here we _challenge_ the notion that sight is essential for creating and enjoying exceptional art. It is the world's first permanent showcase of visual art accessible to visually impaired people, and includes paintings, sculpture, installations and other works. It breaks through traditional hierarchies  & barriers by actively encouraging all works to be experienced through touch.

Each work in the Collection is made accessible through a range of materials: large print and Braille labels, audio-descriptive guides, tactile images, large print and Braille catalogues and the like. We use the Collection to promote Inclusive Exhibition Design to museums, galleries and art schools as well."

The pathologist listened closely to her rather eloquent mission statement, glancing at Sherlock only after she paused, presumably to answer questions.

"I _have_ familiarized myself with some of the pieces and I'm quite interested in the assertion that art shouldn't be relegated to only the sighted among us. Is there a particular approach we should take to the exhibit, Ms. Kumar?" he inquired.

"Since our charge was to make this exhibit fully accessible to all, there is freedom to peruse as you will, Mr. Holmes. Although many of our sighted visitors choose to experience it blindfolded their first time. It _is_ quite different encountering the art by means of tactile awareness…only." She smiled at Molly as she moved to open the doors.

"Wait! Can I…I mean, I think I would like to…experience this through touch only. How…?"

"You can use my scarf, Molly," Sherlock said as he loosened the blue fabric from around his neck and offered it to her. "Turn around, I'll help you."

Molly bit her lip as she took a step closer, turning to enable the detective to cover her eyes. His nearness only reminded her of his earlier proximity and she inhaled deeply, trying her best to focus.

As he secured it snugly behind her head, he leaned in close enough so that she could feel his soft curls brush her ear.

"Can you see anything, Molly?" he asked in a soft tone.

"Um…no, not a thing, Sherlock." She turned her face up to the closeness of his voice, not exactly sure how near he was, but she blushed at the thought of accidental contact.

"All ready then?" Ms. Kumar asked the pair. As they nodded in agreement she opened the doors to reveal an impressive range of art, all of which were designed to be touched.

"I'll leave you to it then. Feel free to stay as long as you like. Our hours are till seven tonight so take your time."

"Thank you," they said in unison as Katherine Kumar exited the gallery with a knowing smile.

Molly grabbed Sherlock's hand as she took a tentative step, thrusting her free hand out in front of her. Having already unfolded his cane, he was able to navigate them quite easily around the space.

As he moved with a confidence that Molly lacked she squeezed his hand and gripped his arm tightly with her other, eliciting a low chuckle from the detective.

"What's so funny, mister?" Molly sported a half smirk as she shuffled slowly along.

"Mm…I'm just reminded of the axiom, "the blind leading the blind."

A burst of laughter erupted from the pathologist as she gave his arm a small slap.

"This is a bit new Sherlock…I think you need to give me at least a full minute before you start mocking me."

"Perish the thought, doctor. I just never anticipated experiencing the adage quite so literally," he replied with amusement in his voice.

Molly's smile faded as she took time to consider the moment herself. The reality seemed to hit her all at once and she stopped in her tracks, prompting a frown from the man beside her, although he remained silent.

_How does he do it?_

Staring at the blackness from behind her mask, she began to have a deeper understanding of the man's life. A lump formed in her throat as she thought of all he'd lost. His exquisite ability to read a room with a glance. The uncanny capacity to ascertain the guilty from a smudged index finger or the absence of a pair of bifocals.

His brilliant analysis of the endless assault of visual cues had a mesmerizing effect on her. It seemed to be such a large part of who he was. But she'd learned that it wasn't true. There is so much more to this man than merely a demonstration of an exceptional intellect. This couldn't be more evident when faced with a future of blindness. He could have let it stop him. He could have lost hope.

Swallowing down her surge of emotion, Molly squeezed his hand and gave a slight pull forward to signal her readiness. As they moved to the nearest creation, Sherlock wondered what was going on in his pathologists head.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she said perhaps a bit too quickly. "Fine, Sherlock…really. What's this one called then?"

Molly's hands made contact with a dark blue pedestal that was slightly taller than waist height. As her fingers traveled up its sides, she paused when the back of her hand touched what she assumed was some sort of sculpture.

"It's called "Anemone…artist, Kate Wells." The detective read the braille description that was mounted on its base. "Made of heat set polyester & stiffener," he said while moving opposite her.

Molly lightly touched the rounded shape as her fingertips traveled from the spiky peeks, down into the valleys, feeling the continuous texture that covered its form.

"Interesting," she stated with a small grin as she continued to explore the twists and ridges.

"An appropriate title I would guess." Sherlock said as he too plotted its crests and creases.

They went on through the gallery to "feel" several textured paintings and a three dimensional piece of colored wire based on a map of the London Underground, which inspired the detective to smirk and mumble "clever," under his breath.

As she lingered over the impasto layers of a painting titled 'Aspen Tress' by Gary Sargeant, Sherlock studied the description of yet another artist's work.

"Molly, come here. These particular pieces were the ones I read about initially. I thought _you_ of all people would appreciate them."

"Where are you Sherlock?" Reaching out her hands, she turned towards the direction of his voice.

"I'm only a few meters away Molly…five or six paces should get you here."

Walking a few steps closer, he stretched out his hand before connecting with her groping fingers a moment later. A smile softened her creased brow once she felt his firm grip guiding her to where he stood. Taking both her hands he placed them directly on another grouping of sculptures.

"Identify, Doctor Hooper," he challenged with a mischievous air.

She ran her fingers over what seemed to be several different shapes, all of a hard material, but having very dissimilar surface textures. The first was rather like a flattened ball with a concave center and a velvet-like exterior. The other two both had a spiky quality, comparable to the 'Anemone' sculpture, except on a much smaller scale. One had porous spins while the other had deep fissures.

As Molly explored the cluster that lay on the smooth white platform, her tactile sense perceived a strange familiarity in the forms.

"Has the pathologist reached a determination yet?"

She was fairly certain given a bit more time she'd be able to work it out.

"Don't tell me," she said as she bit her lip in concentration.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Molly," he teased, crossing his arms in front of him.

She focused on visualizing the sculptures characteristics and the correlation between them; the bowl-like shapes contrasting with the roughly textured spheres. She knew the connection was an important clue to their identity.

As her fingers passed from the velvety smoothness to the coarse ridges…Molly had her epiphany.

She let out a short burst of laughter and Sherlock smirk grew to a full smile.

"What say you, doctor?"

"Blood cells, Sherlock…red and white blood cells."

"Bravo, Molly Hooper," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "The artist's name is…Natasha Lewer," he read off the braille label. Here, there's more…'Pink phytoplankton', in glazed porcelain and enamel. And my personal favorite… 'H5N1' in glazed earthenware."

As she handled said artwork, Molly shook her head in amusement. "Only you could fancy a sculpture of the pathogenic avian influenza virus."

"Oh, admit it; there is a certain…sinister beauty, shall we say? Its structure is incredibly sophisticated."

Molly rolled her eyes behind his scarf as they continued through to the last piece in the collection.

It was a large canvas with textural layers of screen-printed text, that when observed visually challenges the sighted viewer with its overlapping typescript and subtle tone-on-tone colors. Sherlock read the description aloud while Molly ran her delicate fingers over the surface.

"Fiona Zobole uses her own visual impairment as an inspiration to explore printed text in an unusually tactile way. The canvas, titled S1&ht3d, can be seen by the naked eye, but is not recognizable in a familiar way, so the viewer must temporarily enter Fiona's world and use the sense of touch and a distorted perception of sight, to explore the work."

"Huh…so it's secrets can only be found through touch?"

"It would seem so, Molly. Decipher anything yet?"

Molly could tell that the detective appreciated imparting to her, even in a small measure, the experience of his new normal. And certainly she would cherish the deeper understanding that she held because of it.

"Yes, actually. I think I've found…England," she answered with satisfaction.

"Indeed?" The man's curiosity got the better of him and he closed in on her, placing his hands almost directly over hers in an attempt to read what she surmised. His brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers traced not braille characters but embossed lettering of different styles and scales, intersecting in portions, suggesting the emergence of a cipher of street names.

_Why does he have to smell so good, anyway?_

"Yes….very good, Molly," he replied, so close that she felt his breath when he spoke. "Bury St Edmunds…in Suffolk, to be exact." Sherlock turned his face downward slightly and was distracted by the scent of her, the vanilla and lavender, yes. But he was now familiar with another, one that is as lovely and sweet as the woman herself…the distinct scent of Molly. As close as he was however, the only real contact was in that of their hands, which he relocated further up the canvas, seeking to divert his attention back to the art.

Molly followed suit on the lower portions, scanning the texture for a discernible line, like looking for hidden treasure. A hint of a smile edged the corners of her mouth as she slowed and then retraced the path of her progress.

"I think I found something… **'Neither a lofty degree of intelligence, nor imagination, nor both together, go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, _that_ is the soul of genius.' -Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart"**

As her mind began to fully process the words that had fallen from her mouth, without thinking she pulled the scarf from her eyes and blinked at the sudden adjustment to light. The first thing she focused on was the peculiar expression on the detectives face. Not entirely sure he hadn't checked into his mind palace, Molly cleared her throat before speaking again.

"I hadn't heard that one before," she said with a tinge of shyness.

The man had suddenly snapped out of his momentary daze and continued to scour the canvas as if they were clues of a most imperative nature.

"Mozart," she heard him grumble under his breath before his probing slowed to a halt.

"I hit upon _something_ , I believe," he said before reciting his findings.

**"The brain gives the heart its sight. The heart gives the brain its vision…"**

Sherlock suddenly hesitated as his fingers traced the last part of his discovery. Molly's interest peeked when she saw the obvious vacillation in the detective's movements.

"Sherlock?"

A slight crinkle appeared between his eyebrows, giving his profile an altogether ambivalent expression.

"Go on," she encouraged in a soft voice.

Clearing his throat, he gave her a quick glance before resuming his statement with an uncertainty that was most uncommon.

**"The heart holds answers the brain refuses to see. -Rob Kall"**

Molly blinked at the man who appeared quite immobile until a gentle touch on his arm roused him. She stretched up on her toes to place the blue scarf around the detective's neck. Sherlock's hands came up to meet hers just before she pulled away, causing her breath to hitch.

"I believe that's all of it, Molly. Let's get ourselves back to London, shall we?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cautiously tip-toeing closer* What t'ya think?
> 
> Hope you found this subject as interesting as I did. If you've read my profile you'd know that it's near and dear to my heart.
> 
> Everything in this chapter is factual and can be googled. All except for some creative license I took in regards to the last art piece. The Mozart and Kall quotes were my own addition, although she does include the word 'love' at least once. :)
> 
> Sources sited: the BlindArt website, culture24 website: archived article by Tristan Parker and Art created for the Blind by Natasha Crane
> 
> My awesome beta Writingwife83 is still indeed...AWESOME! ;D Thank you my dear!


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks to my lovely beta Writingwife83!

"Instead of sleeping Molly Hooper, we may as well make good use of our time and check the inbox." Sherlock smirked as he retrieved his phone.

The late day traffic threatened to prolong their already lengthy ride back to Baker Street; while the flagging pathologist straightened her back in response to the man's suggestion.

"Nothing more interesting than a three, I'm afraid. Sorry," she said rubbing her eyes.

Suddenly remembering Kitty Riley's email, Molly twisted in her seat uncomfortably, in spite of her previous battle against the cars lulling influences.

Deciding it best to deal with the inevitable, she said, "You did get something else though. Not sure if it's even worth your time, considering whom it's from."

Sherlock turned with a slightly stunned expression, unaccustomed to hearing the woman speak a sharp word about anyone.

"I'm curious to the identity of the person who would find themselves on the wrong side of you, Molly."

She regarded his raised brow and proffered phone with a sheepish look before seizing it and searching for the email. Not particularly interested in reading the reporters words a second time, she enabled the text-to-speech app and sat back as Kitty Riley's words filled the confines of the car.

Molly studied the detective's features as recognition struck. His eyes narrowed while his gaze shifted from left to right, processing the content of the message. By its end he sat with his palms together in front of him and his fingers tapping his lips, totally lost in thought.

"I think there's a bit more going on here than Ms. Riley is divulging," he said after a minute.

"You mean she has an ulterior motive in her apology? I wouldn't be surprised. The woman is a self-serving cow, who has _absolutely_ no business…"

"That's not what I meant, actually…" Sherlock tried hiding his amusement at Molly rarely raised ire. "I think she may need our help."

The pathologist frowned and crossed her arms. "Why would you say that, Sherlock?"

"Mm…I could be mistaken, but I find it a bit strange that she's waited this long to offer her apologies. Not to say that she hasn't felt remorse from the beginning. I _do_ believe Kitty Riley has been penitent since the truth was revealed. Her embarrassment has kept her at bay, pending this new development, which has apparently compelled her to contact me."

Molly's affronted posture diminished somewhat while her glower deepened.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but she has a lot of cheek asking you for _anything_!"

The detective considered her resentment with more gravity from that moment, all previous amusement having waned.

"You're exhibiting signs of bitterness, doctor."

Molly's huff was instantly changed into a stony façade as her mouth pressed into a hard line and her eyes a flinty stare. Even though Sherlock couldn't actually see it, he certainly felt the arctic shift.

Leaning forward, he cleared his throat and frowned at his clasped hands, considering his next statement.

"Is there…something I've missed?" he asked soberly.

The pathologists steely glare softened a bit at his query. Turning to look out her window, she took a calming breath before attempting to recount some of what he missed while he was dead.

"It went beyond her initial expose in the papers. After the fall and Moriarty's death she became the authority on Richard Brooks and the _fraud_ detective. She was everywhere. For most of that year, her name, her _bloody_ articles and _your_ disgraced reputation was all I heard about. She tried on three separate occasions to interview me. On her third attempt, I swear… it almost came to blows when she said Richard Brooks told her things about me…things that even … _you_ …had said to him. She offered me the opportunity to set the record straight." Molly's brow furrowed as she clinched her hands together. "I knew that it…it was all…rubbish. But it still…" She paused when her voice carried a slight tremor.

"It still hurt." His voice was soft when he spoke, tinged with a singular compassion that was atypical of the man.

When she faced him again she saw a concern in his eyes that made her heart ache.

"Yeah…it did," she whispered as she gazed up at him.

"I'm… sorry, Molly…that you had to go through that."

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose as he leaned back against his seat, looking straight ahead.

"What I say now is not meant to discount or even…excuse what Ms. Riley did. It _is_ meant however to shed a bit of light…on the whole picture, as it were."

He glanced in her direction before continuing.

"When I first made Kitty Riley's acquaintance, it was at Old Bailey, before I testified at the trial. She pretended to be a groupie…approaching me in the gent's loo of all places."

Molly's brow shot up and she shook her head in disgust. "Nice," she muttered under her breath.

Smirking at her reaction, he carried on.

"Yes, well…I was _not_ in the mood and she was a tad too persistent, so I…deduced her, perhaps a bit…too harshly."

"Oh?" Molly scanned his face with interest. "How harshly, Sherlock?"

Deliberating the question as if for the first time, he took a moment to respond.

"Mm…let's just say my words and actions did nothing to endear myself to her."

Lowering her eyes to her lap, the pathologist considered the weight of his admission. She knew full well what it was like to be on the receiving end of the detective's relentless and often pitiless suppositions.

"Moriarty soon filled her head with plausible lies and treated her to an Oscar-worthy performance, which she was all too willing to swallow, considering our first encounter."

When he paused, Molly looked over to find his eyes closed and his expression unreadable.

"Perhaps one other point to consider Molly; she didn't… _know_ me like you did. You were able to… _see_ me somehow, faults and all and still manage to believe that I was who I claimed to be. Ms. Riley had no such perspective. In fact she had every reason to doubt me, in spite of my deduction in the loo. Her conviction of my guilt was based on emotion and lies. Your belief in my innocence was grounded in something…deeper."

She sat unblinkingly as he spoke, absorbing what was being said. His eyes were still closed, but his countenance revealed that he was more than somewhat confused over his pathologist's convictions.

Molly had to admit that it was true that she had an extraordinary high tolerance for the man's… unconventional behavior. She also thought about Moriarty's considerable allure; they were all victims of his trickery…including the great Sherlock Holmes.

She let out a loud sigh which resulted in the detective opening his eyes, revealing a trace of good humor.

"Besides, there is a…certain professional satisfaction that comes from a former detractor and cynic requesting our assistance; wouldn't you say?" he remarked with a smirk.

A slow grin spread on the doctor's face. "I can see that, actually," she replied reluctantly.

Hearing the smile in her voice, Sherlock exhaled the breath he unintentionally was holding.

"So…" He crossed his right leg as his fingers casually drummed his knee. "Shall we show Ms. Kitty Riley…some benevolence?"

"Only if it's accompanied by a nice slice of humble pie," she answered mischievously, just prior to the appearance of a rather large smile on the consulting detective's face.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I get the distinct impression that there aren't too many Kitty Riley fans out there, LOL. There's blood in the water and you're all circling...waiting for the kill! Well...I may disappoint those of you who want Ms. Riley's head on a platter. Sorry, I don't roll that way. I do promise however, that she'll know exactly how Molly feels about her. ;D Hope you enjoy it and please review! It makes my day!
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83...you're the best!

By late morning of the following day, they sat in the rears of Speedy's, across from the defamed reporter, looking quite pleased with themselves as she repeated her earlier compunctions regarding the past.

"He was just…so convincing, yeah?" Kitty Riley spoke with a far-away look in her eyes. "I'd always prided myself as a decent judge of character... good reporter instincts, that sort of thing."

She looked down into her bowl of curried chicken soup, swirling it about with her spoon. "The whole matter really shook my self-confidence, you know?"

Molly began clinching her jaw as her endurance started wearing thin. She initially resigned herself to put the past behind them. But as she sat and listened to what she believed was at _best_ feeble excuses, her patience soon failed her.

"Sorry, but you _do_ recall my history with Jim Moriarty don't you? You certainly _did_ a couple of years ago…or has the passing of time conveniently purged your memory?"

The pathologist spoke slowly and was surprisingly calm for someone who was so cheesed off.

"I, on the other hand, have a crystal-clear recollection of my experiences with him and yet I didn't cast off all common decency as a result. My big question to you Ms. Riley has been; _where was your due diligence_?"

Molly's eyes became fiery as she spoke and she punctuated her last question by forcefully tapping the table with a pointed finger.

"In your case, in particular; you had a responsibility to maintain a standard of care in your investigations. If there is no understanding of the power that the printed word has…if you don't respect its capacity to bring total ruination to a life, than you have no business being a part of it."

Kitty sat motionless, spoon in hand, with her mouth hanging slightly. Sensing that she had no immediate plans of launching a defense, Molly continued.

"You know…I would have talked to you back then," she said, wrapping her fingers around her warm cuppa, all the while maintaining their eye contact. Catching sight of the confused expression on the woman's face, Molly looked at her hands before resuming.

"When he came to you… _Richard Brook_ …" She looked back to find her eyes again. "If you had come to me then…to ask me about Sherlock, even about Jim, I would have set you straight. I could have recounted a whole host of examples that would have proven to you that Sherlock's gifts were real and Jim Moriarty was a liar. _And_ I could have put you in contact with people that would have confirmed my convictions, at least where Sherlock was concerned. I could have even gone back as far as his adolescence."

The detective's eyebrows shot up under the dark fringe of curls, his gaping mouth obscured behind his clasped hands as both thumbs supported his chin.

_Really Doctor Hooper? You have some explaining to do._

His hidden surprise quickly transformed into a half-grin before he cleared his throat and gained the attention of both pathologist and journalist.

"Yes, well…I think we can all agree that Moriarty was an unusually clever psychopathic criminal mind and leave it there. I _do_ want to say this, however…before we continue on. There will be _no_ inquiries, requests or demands coming from your end…only answers. We will _not_ be conversing about my faked suicide or _if_ Doctor Hooper was or was not involved. This is in no way meant to be fodder for your own journalistic ends…unless express permission has been given. Understood?"

"Quite understood, Mr. Holmes," she answered, nodding vigorously.

"Good. Now…with that _tedious_ business out of the way…why don't _you_ begin by pitching your tale of woe?"

Kitty Riley's air of confusion returned. "I…I didn't… I mean, how…?"

"Deduced it," the pair responded in unison.

Staring from one to the other with a stunned expression, the reporter tentatively stirred her now tepid soup once more.

"I've received a fair quantity of hate mail, Mr. Holmes," she said rather sheepishly, looking intently at her bowl. "That…in and of itself isn't unusual. Even _before_ you came back there had been disgruntled fans of yours who've made it perfectly clear their opinion of me _and_ your innocence."

She hesitated a moment and carefully laid her spoon down. Taking a deep breath, she refocused her gaze and resumed her narrative once again.

"This… _particular_ individual has been in contact with me from the very beginning. The early e-mails were a bit…frantic. They were adamant about your innocence and seemed genuinely heartbroken over your suicide. Over the following months they became increasingly hostile, especially after a telly appearance or a new article," she said glancing nervously in Molly's direction.

"Did you go to the police?" Sherlock asked, his eyes closed and his hands clasped in his customary fashion with his fingers resting on his lips.

"Um…no, I didn't actually."

"Why not?" he countered abruptly.

She frowned into her soup and pushed it to the side. "Honestly, at that point I thought I could handle it. Typically, things like this come along with the job, you know? My editors all knew about them. It was decided that we'd wait and see if it escalated or not. They hired a bodyguard for me and things continued as usual."

Pausing for a fresh round of teas, she stirred her cream and sugar in the steaming mug, glancing up to see the two waiting for her. She took a deep breath before going on.

"Soon after, things began to change. Evidence started coming out about your innocence and that Moriarty was indeed real. The paper wasn't happy with the bad publicity…as you can imagine. More negative mail starting coming in but nothing _particularly_ menacing. Eventually my editors thought it best that I took some time off."

The reporter rubbed her tired eyes before taking a long sip of her hot brew.

"The threats stopped. At least for a time. The bodyguard was no longer needed obviously and some months later the paper put me back on payroll with a wage cut, doing mostly grunt work for most of the year. Ultimately I was given mostly civic events to cover. But at least I was in print again…even if it was mostly buried in the interior," she said with a sigh and a small smile.

"And this was how long ago?" asked the detective.

"Last April."

"So when did it start again?" he countered.

"About two months before your injury. It was similar to the previous ones but these were more…gloating, I guess."

"Did you feel as though your life was in danger again?" Molly asked.

"Um…not really. The e-mails would sometimes suggest that I should perhaps consider suicide, but there weren't any outright threats yet, no."

"Lovely," Molly muttered before taking a sip.

"Go on, Ms. Riley," urged Sherlock.

"They seemed to stop altogether after you lost your sight, Mr. Holmes. For the period that you were out of the public eye there was nothing. Not until reports started coming out about your efforts to continue your work with Doctor Hooper did they start up again."

"And?" he said in impatience.

"Well…" She hesitated. "I…started receiving photos…of myself."

Molly frowned. "What type of photos?"

"Nothing really special at first…just of my comings and goings. Enough to send the message that I was being watched. I showed them to my editors but they seemed to blow it off. It wasn't until a week ago that I really started getting scared." She pulled out a folder from her bag that hung on her chair and opened it on the table.

Molly inhaled sharply as she glimpsed a photo of Kitty Riley with fatal stab wounds. They were digitally manipulated, but very realistic and were obviously taken while she slept. The very idea made the hairs on her arms stand up. She spread out the stack on the table in order to see all of them. Each one was of a similar nature, graphically showing the journalists death by different methods. If it wasn't so grisly and ominous she'd appreciate the skill behind them. Verbally describing them with a meticulous eye, Molly conveyed everything she could about the handiwork of the stalker.

When finally concluding her examination, she re-stacked the photos, closed the folder and clasped her hands together on top them.

"Excellent, Doctor…thank you," he said, finally stirring from the trance-like posture he assumed while listening to Molly's analysis.

"We will take these as evidence and contact the Yard directly. I would recommend that you not return to your flat, Ms. Riley. You're obviously in danger. Instead I would suggest that you accompany us and give your statement. I'm sure Lestrade will authorize an officer to guard you until we manage to apprehend this person. Meanwhile, I want all known correspondence…every e-mail, letter, all of it."

Sherlock retrieved his phone and informed the DI of their pending visit, while Molly took care of the bill. After gathering themselves together, Sherlock promptly took the pathologists hand and headed out the door into the street to hail a taxi. Kitty Riley eyes were glued to the pair as the reporter followed close behind them. She noted how in sync they were, like they were an extension of one another…like they _belonged_ together. Her curiosity peaked, while every journalistic instinct within her cried out that there was a story here…a wonderful one, if she'd dare to speculate.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Kitty resigned to the fact that _if_ she wanted to survive this, she'd have to play by their rules. So during the rather crowded taxi ride to the yard, Ms. Riley tried her hardest to ignore the distinct tension that was present and she was _quite_ sure, at least in _this_ case, she had absolutely nothing to do with it.

…..

The lights and low music were calming and restful but the man who lay stretched out on the lounger was anything but. His head jerked from side to side, squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying to ward off an imminent doom.

"No…n…no, please!"

"Calm yourself, Nicholas. Take another deep breath. You are in no danger." The subdued voice spoke with a soothing quality, endeavoring to placate the man's anxiety.

"What's happening to you right now can in no way harm you. You are separated from all threat or risk. You are completely safe, totally disconnected from your fear."

The man began to quiet down as he continued to listen to the assuaging guide.

"Can you tell me where you are?" the voice asked placidly.

"I…I'm standing …on a la…large traffic island… at P…Piccadilly Circus."

"Good…very good. What do you hear?"

"Sounds of life," he replied with a trembling tone.

The voice continued to direct the terrified man through the memory…further then he had ever been able to recall before.

"And when it was over, Nicholas…what did you tell him?"

"He…he says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm...how many of you guessed who this is by the first or second clue, I wonder? Kudos to those who get it right!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KUDOS! To Icecat62, Saffysmom, littlesherlockian1975, WayTooEasliyObsessed, Succi and of course, Writingwife83...for deducing the identity of our stalker. Nicely done!

Lestrade shook his head when he learned of her editor's indifference. He'd seen deadly results from a lot less and told the reporter that she had done the wise thing. They arranged a safe house for her while the rest of the evidence was collected from her flat. Some of which were sent to Bart's while the rest went to Baker street.

As Molly and Sherlock sifted through what amounted to mostly e-mails, they also found a few letters that had been handwritten and some that were comprised of newspaper clippings which according to the detective was not only dismally clichéd, but wholly ineffective at keeping the perpetrator completely anonymous. Not only does it typically reveal the general date and vicinity of its creation, it usually exposes its author's level of education, age, gender and mental stability (or lack thereof).

Sherlock gleaned that the stalker is most likely male, in his early to mid-twenties at the time, average A-levels, obviously skilled in computer graphics and photo manipulation and suffers from PTSD. Without a concrete lead to a suspect however, a criminal profile was little use to them.

Dragging his hands over his face and through his hair with a ruffle, the detective rose from his chair to stretch his back.

"Let's get ourselves to Bart's and have at whatever trace evidence was collected, shall we?"

…..

As Molly sat absorbed in the sights of her microscope, the detective sat opposite the room on one of the stools, attempting to occupy himself with his BrailleNote. As the minutes passed however Sherlock became increasingly agitated. Still poised over her work, she looked up through her lashes at the man with the unsettled demeanor.

"Is there something wrong Sherlock?" she asked in a quiet voice.

His bouncing knee stilled and his long fingers paused, suspended over the notetaker. The creases on his brow deepened as his jaw muscles continued to work. Knowing that he was deliberating his response, she waited patiently for a reaction.

"I'm perfectly fine, Molly. I'd recommend that you finish your analysis so we can move on."

Her own forehead crinkled at his answer and she took a moment to study him. He remained unmoving for another few seconds before turning to face her in a huff.

"Honestly doctor, I can _feel_ your ruminations from here. I'll say it again if I must…I . am . fine!"

_The consulting detective dost protest too much, methinks._

"A-huh," she uttered, making it clear in her intonation that she was _entirely_ unconvinced.

His eyes narrowed in the pathologist's direction as his jaw jut out in defiance. She knew her patient resolve would outlast his fit of pique; so she waited.

"Moll-y," he warned in a sternness that she could already see crumbling, allowing herself a hint of a smile at his expense.

"Mm?"

Rising from his seat, he took a step toward her, inwardly fighting the inexplicable pull he felt to bare his soul to her.

"Why must you be so… _assiduous_?" he voiced accusingly with a scowl.

Her smile grew into a smirk, but she didn't respond.

Another minute past and she could tell he was about to crack.

"FINE… _right!_ If you must know, I'll tell you… I'm angry! There…I've said it. In fact, I'm quite _pissed off,_ actually. Pissed that I can no longer look through a microscope…pissed that can no longer run my _own_ analysis… _or_ my own experiments anymore; at least not the way in which I'm accustomed. I am genuinely and royally… _PISSED OFF!_ "

Sherlock had been pacing back and forth between the worktables, gesticulating wildly about the room. The volume of his voice increased until his last words echoed in a shout, whirling on his heels to face Molly once again.

_At last…now we're getting somewhere._

The pathologist knew not to move a muscle or utter a word until his outburst concluded.

"Are you still here Molly Hooper or have you run off?!" he growled while his flashing eyes darted to and fro.

"I'd _like_ to believe that I've developed a bit more staying power than that, Sherlock Holmes," she remarked tenderly.

He reeled away with a snarl to lean heavily on the table behind him. Slowly he closed his eyes and took a breath in through his nose, trying to control the storm that brewed just below the surface.

Suddenly he beat the worktable with his fists as he bent forward, making Molly jump from the startling boom. For a moment he stood motionless with his back to her, until with a roar he abruptly kicked the nearby stool, sending it clear across the room. She watched as it crashed into the wall and fell onto its side, in a heap.

She could see his knuckles turning white with the force of his hold while he gripped the table's edge and the tension in his shoulders was clearly visible as he dropped his head down.

Molly took a tentative step toward the man and waited a couple more seconds before slowly moving to his side. Quietly hoisting herself up onto the table with one swift motion, she sat close to him with her hands neatly folded in her lap.

Her earlier amusement vanished like a vapor when she saw the obvious pain Sherlock was in. Even though she knew it was a good thing for him to process _through_ his anger and grief she wasn't accustomed to a vulnerable Sherlock. Angry? Yes…she's witnessed his frustration and temper on more than one occasion, just for different reasons. This was unlike anything else…it was raw, and personal. And he was allowing _her_ to be witness to it.

The detective still had his head down so Molly was unable to see his face as his dark mop of curls obscured his features, all except his lower jaw which was clenched in agitation.

As he slowly raised his head, she could plainly see the tempest in his kaleidoscopic eyes. The intensity of it almost felt like a physical blow to her and she mentally braced herself for a potentially volatile episode.

"I'm not a proponent of self-pity, Molly." Sherlock spoke in a low timber that seemed to labor against his strangled self-control.

"Rarely do I see the value in dwelling on one's own misery and seldom do I have patience for it in others. That being said, I… _feel_ …" He spat out the word with the usual vehemence he's shown in the past.

"…Deprived…and…stripped…" He closed his eyes again before forcing out the rest of his confession. "…of the very thing that makes me…who I am."

This admission was spoken in opposite fashion from his earlier outburst. His low but strong voice moderated into nothing louder than a whisper, while his shut eyes squeezed even tighter and his brow wrinkled in distress.

Molly blinked at the man with a wide gaze, as her brain scrambled to come up with something… _anything_ , which would bring a measure of comfort. Just coming off a string of solved cases post TBI she knew Sherlock was speaking purely from his emotions. _He_ knew that he was more than just his extraordinary visual acuity. He proved himself by test. Right now, however…he was mourning the loss of a part of himself that sparked and fueled his great intellect. And she needed to grieve that loss with him.

The pathologist reached out next to her and placed her small hand on top of his tense forearm, giving it a gentle rub.

He didn't balk at her touch, as she half suspected he would. In fact she could feel some of the tightness ease as she continued to stroke his arm with all the tenderness she could muster.

Sherlock's pinched brow began to diminish and his eyes slowly opened as Molly's caressing hand slid down his arm and settled on the back on his own, still loosely gripping the table's edge.

"You have a right to be angry, Sherlock. Every right to feel deprived and robbed of an important facet of your life. It…it's not fair, is it?"

Her words were as warm and tender as her touch and they too caressed him in a way that was restoring his fortitude. He marveled at how familiar and if he were to be honest, how welcome her touch had become. Turning his hand to entwine their fingers, he took a deep breath and continued to allow the physical contact to assuage him.

She was stunned for an instant at his response to her open show of affection and concern, but soon recovered and tightened her grip on his hand.

An alert from Sherlock's phone cut through the quiet, announcing the source of the text. "Kitty Riley," stated the phone. Unbeknownst to one other, both had stifled a sigh at the interruption, although the detective managed to retrieve the intrusive device without relinquishing Molly's hand.

**"I've just now remembered that years ago, around the time of your suicide, I received a voicemail…anonymous of course…it may have been the same person. I've saved it." -KR**

Molly jumped off the table, looked up and gave his hand a playful squeeze. "So shall we go solve another one then?" she asked with clear excitement in her voice.

With all previous signs of distress gone, Sherlock brought the pathologists hand up to his mouth and brushed her fingers against his lips. Her heart leaped in her chest from the soft pressure of a kiss and felt his smile against her skin before answering her.

"Far be it from me to disappoint you, Doctor Hooper."

…..

They sat in the simply furnished room of the safe house, waiting for Kitty to access her archived voice-mail. Molly's brain and hand were still buzzing from the gentle kiss, all the while trying to ignore the man's close proximity on the small sofa. They were quite cozily ensconced with Sherlock's arm wrapped around the back of the chair and his leg crossed in front of them, lightly touching her knee.

"Sorry, it's a bit buried," said Ms. Riley slightly flustered as she fiddled with her mobile. "Right, here we go…on speaker."

**"Listen…you need to stop spreading your lies about Sherlock Holmes, yeah? He…he…wasn't a fraud and Moriarty's no actor. He is… _was_ …the devil! HE WAS THE DEVIL…NOT, not someone Mr. Holmes made up! He…was very, very real. So-so just STOP IT…you're the one lying…stop it. He can't defend himself now…so just…I needed to say this, to… do this for him…needed to tell the truth. I can't let Moriarty do this. It's not right…so, so I'm telling you…I KNOW…okay? I know the truth. "**

Molly's blood ran cold from the near panic that was in the man's voice. To say that this person was an admirer or crazed fan didn't seem to fit. There was something else here…something significant.

"Sherlock…I…" Molly paused the moment her eyes caught the detective's expression. She knew that look.

"Play it again…I need to hear it again," he snapped out with a measured intensity as he shut his eyes in concentration.

While the unnerving voice made his desperate plea for a second time, Sherlock removed his arm and leaned forward, steepled fingers to his lips.

In his mind palace he found himself almost propelled down the corridor of years, the stalker's voice echoing through its long passage. It was a voice he'd heard before. And he also knew where to find it…the year of his death.

Both Molly and Kitty jumped back with a start as the detective suddenly leaped from his spot with a shout of recognition.

"Moriarty's second Semtex'd kidnapping victim."

"Nicholas Gadd," the reporter breathed as she slowly rose to her feet. "I…talked with him…briefly, after they discharged him from hospital. I just gave him my card…in case, you know."

"You _do_ have an uncanny flair for making friends wherever you go; don't you, Ms. Riley?" commented the detective with a raised brow.

Molly stood up with a small smirk on her lips, finding his observation quite amusing, considering his _own_ propensity to alienate.

"Well, I guess that would explain the PTSD. But would we have enough evidence to connect him to the letters and the photos, I wonder?"

"Metadata, Doctor Hooper…metadata. We may be able to connect them to his computer and even the printed digital photos could be sourced to a particular make or model, or even to a specific machine," he replied with confidence as he rapidly dressed himself in his coat and scarf. "Come along, Molly. We have a lot to do before we pay Mr. Gadd a visit."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'd love to hear your thoughts, as usual! ... Hope that little kiss was enough for the moment! ;D
> 
> Thank you Writingwife83! xoxoxoxox ;D


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback! You guys are just super! ;D

Thanks to Mycroft, they were able to quickly follow a paper trail that revealed their suspect's whereabouts. Signs of the man's instability could be easily spotted by how many times he moved and bounced around from job to job. Within that second year however, things seemed to quiet down. He became a regular at a PTSD support group and had settled into a position at NatMag co.'s editing department.

However, roughly two weeks after the detective's return from the dead, Nicholas stopped attending his meetings and began missing days from work. Co-workers reported a sudden change in his demeanor. Once a rather shy but accommodating personality, the man seemed to alter overnight. He became increasingly withdrawn and fretful, alienating the few friends he managed to secure. When asked their opinion, they had all assumed it was a health issue. Matters came to a head a little over a month before, when the company dismissed him due to excessive absences.

Holmes and Hooper decided to travel the mile between Baker Street and NatMag headquarters by foot, as Molly was good enough to point out the unusually warmish sunny morning and the benefit of regular exercise. Little did she know the marathon of a day she'd be subjected to; between the hours of interviews, gathering the results from the trace analysis at Bart's _and_ their meeting with Greg at the Yard, the pathologist was ready for a break.

"I'm starving Sherlock; we've been running since early morning. I'm not like you; I need food at least once a day. I want to eat, NOW!"

"Fine…we've accomplished all that we can for the moment. Our next move will be to actually approach Nicholas Gadd; a venture worthy of extra consideration, I'd say. Would a discussion over fish and chips meet your requirements, Molly?" Sherlock retorted with a trace of a smile.

" _Only_ if I eat first, _then_ discuss…thank you very much," she countered as they exited Scotland Yard into the much colder night air, enjoying the victory that won her a late meal with the man who never ate during cases.

"Agreed…I'll talk, while you listen…and eat," he stated, at the same time hailing a taxi.

….

Molly sat nursing her second tea with a full stomach and a rather heavy heart as they reviewed everything they've accumulated on Nicholas Gadd. Having been a victim of Moriarty's torment automatically made him a sympathetic figure in her eyes. She had to keep the murderous photo manipulations in the forefront of her mind as they discussed the best way to nab their suspect.

"Sherlock…do you think that he may just…confess to you, I mean…if we confront him. There is a bit of hero worship at work here and perhaps if you were to…approach him, about the harassment and threats…"

"You don't want to see him in jail, do you?" he asked in a subdued tone as be pushed his chip through the vinegar before taking a small bite.

She frowned in her tea and gave a half shrug, considering his question honestly.

"Perhaps not…I guess, I…" Molly sighed, trying to find the right words. "…would say the proper medical treatment, intensive psychotherapy and anti-depressives…would probably be a bit more productive then a jail cell…just my opinion."

"No _just_ about it, Molly…you are the professional. I'm inclined to go along with your judgement. Nevertheless, that doesn't change our objective."

"I know that, Sherlock. He certainly can't be allowed to go on this way. It'll continue to escalate until Kitty gets physically attacked."

Sherlock leaned with his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin.

"As for your earlier question, should we confront him…I've been considering all possible results from that option. Without further data they _are_ quite numerous indeed. The safest, most sensible course of action would be to have the yard accompany us."

Molly's brow furrowed at the thought. "Do you really think that's necessary, Sherlock? I mean he has no history of violence and as positive as we are that he's our stalker…we really don't have anything to tie him to our evidence…not yet, anyway. My guess is that his mental state is unquestionably fragile. Any police presence may just make things worse."

"Your certitude is warranted, Molly. It's his reaction to _you_ …that is my chief concern at the moment."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the table between them. She could see the hesitation in his eyes.

"Oh…" _Oh…hadn't thought of that._

"Perhaps he'll see me as…as an extension of your work?"

"Or perhaps he'll see you as a rival. I don't wish to make you a target for another madman… _if_ …I can help it, Molly." His eyes suddenly shifted to lock onto her own…or so it seemed, sending shivers up her spine.

She cleared her throat as a flush rose up her neck. "Fine, so police then…but what if they stay in the periphery."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, before reaching for another chip. Molly watched him silently deliberate her suggestion as he consumed the morsel of food. He wiped his fingers unhurriedly with the paper napkin before crushing it into a ball.

Sighing dramatically, he answered, "I'll consider it."

…..

After discussing the matter with Lestrade they decided that the initial contact with Nicholas Gadd would be limited to just the consulting detective and his pathologist. The DI, along with a handful of others would be waiting in the wings with the warrant to collect whatever evidence was necessary. But they'd wait on their word before making a move.

As the two approached the suspect's door, Molly's conviction regarding this first meeting began to wane. What if she was wrong about this man's innocuousness? What if she unwittingly put them both at risk?

Before she could voice her uncertainty, Sherlock rang the bell and clasped his hands behind his back, appearing to be the epitome of self-possession.

The distinct jostle of the peephole was heard, followed by a sound resembling a gasp and then silence. Sherlock's mouth twitched with restraint as his gloved finger pressed its target for a second time. A muffled succession of curses were uttered before quiet fell once more.

Molly glanced up at the stoic-looking man by her side, wondering what their next move would be; when tentative clicks were heard from a series of deadbolts disengaging. A crack yawned wide enough to scarcely reveal one eye. It blinked furiously at Sherlock, totally ignoring Molly's presence. Ever the optimist, she thought perhaps that was a good sign.

"It's…it's you…" he whispered hoarsely. "How can...it…be you? What do…I, I mean…what…?"

"You are Nicholas Gadd, I believe?" The detective asked in an uncharacteristically patient tone that inspired a double-take from the woman beside him.

The gap in the door became slightly wider and more of the stunned man's face was revealed.

"You…you remember me," he said with a mixture of awe and relief.

Sherlock slowly blinked once while a faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, Mr. Gadd…I remember you."

The door opened enough so that the interior of the man's flat could be seen.

"See…I, I told him you'd remember. I…I knew you wouldn't forget….I knew it."

"May we come in?" he asked without missing a beat. Nicholas's eyes widened and his gaze finally dragged over to Molly briefly before settling back to Sherlock.

"Umm…I…"

"I'm sorry, forgive me…where are my manners," he said in an apologetic tone. "This is Molly Hooper. She is my…"

"She's your eyes, I know," the man said in earnest, looking again at Molly. She could see the hesitation before he fully opened the door to admit them. Stifling a sigh of relief, they quickly stepped from the hall to what had to have been the smallest flat Molly had ever seen. The entirety of it could be viewed from the front door, all except the loo which was to their far left. The tiny kitchenette was on the opposite wall with a single bed to the right. There was a small coach, chair and floor lamp in the middle of the room which faced a telly that was mounted to the wall next to the entry.

The flat was spotless. To describe Mr. Gadd as a minimalist and a super neat-freak would be just scratching the surface. The smell of disinfectant was strong enough to rival that of St. Bart's morgue, indicating to the pathologist that he suffered from OCD as well as PTSD, which was not an uncommon pairing of disorders.

Nicholas stood rather awkwardly, not really knowing what to do or say next. Throwing caution to the wind, Molly decided to speak up.

"Thank you…for seeing us without a phone call. We'd have rung you if we had your number."

"Um…yeah, yeah…no problem. Why don't you…both…have a seat?" The kindness in her voice seemed to relax him a bit. "Um, not sure what I have to offer as far as drinks…probably some tea, if you'd like. I'd have to, um…"

"That won't be necessary," assured Sherlock as they moved to sit down. "We were…seeking your help, actually…on a case we're currently involved with."

Molly looked sharply at the detective. He had gone off the script they had discussed. Knowing he must have his reasons she resolved to follow his lead.

"Help?" Nicholas looked totally befuddled. "How…I mean, what could… _I_ …do to help… _you_?"

Molly couldn't help feel a whole new wave of sympathy for this man. She was also beginning to doubt whether he would even be capable of being Kitty Riley's stalker. Perhaps Sherlock was experiencing similar doubts.

"Your insight would be of help to us."

"Insight?" Nicholas frowned as he lowered himself into the chair near where his unexpected guests sat.

"Yes…you see, we have some pictures we were hoping you'd be able to assist with. Molly would you let Mr. Gadd see _one_ of the photos."

She did her best to hide her confusion as she retrieved one of the pictures of Kitty's apparent death.

As she handed it to Nicholas, his eyes became the size of saucers and his mouth opened to speak, only no sound was uttered.

Molly watched the shock wash over the man as he stared at the photo.

"My God…I…I know her. This…this is Kitty Riley." Nicholas looked into Molly's eyes and then to Sherlock. "This is that reporter…who…who…" His voice died as he stared once again at the grisly photo. "I…I didn't like her. I thought she was…well, wrong for what she said about you, Mr. Holmes. But I'm…I'm sorry to see this…happen…well, to anyone. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy."

Molly sat with her eyes wide as Nicholas stared with disgust at the supposed manipulation he created.

They were wrong.

She knew he was telling the truth. He thought this was an actual picture of Kitty's corpse.

Yet her intuition told her it wasn't as simple as that.

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with interest as he gazed sightlessly in the direction of the man's voice.

"May I call you Nicholas?" Sherlock asked in a benevolent manner.

"Of…of course," he stammered, looking up as his complexion colored slightly.

"Wonderful…" The detective smiled. "May I ask who you were referring to earlier? The person who thought I wouldn't remember you?"

"Oh, that…" Nicholas looked embarrassed suddenly. "I was talking about my therapist."

"Your therapist?" Molly asked.

He blinked at Molly with an abrupt look of realization. "Yeah…actually, would you mind if I called him right now? He'd asked me to call him…if you ever…well, if you ever came to see me."

"Did he now?" he probed as his curiosity piqued. "By all means…let him know," Sherlock said with an accommodating air.

Nicholas scrambled for his phone that sat on a shelf by the door.

"I believe he's telling the truth, Sherlock," she whispered in the man's ear.

"Mm…I concur. But there is definitely _something_ more going on here."

She gave a hum of agreement before Nicholas returned to his chair, having made his phone call.

"Um…he's on his way. Happens to be in the neighborhood in fact."

"How convenient," Sherlock retorted with a forced grin.

"I…I hope you don't mind…I mean you've been a big part of my…my recovery, since…since, you know…the k-kidnapping," he faltered with insecurity.

"Not at all. Would you mind telling us about your recovery while we're waiting?" he inquired, trying to sound as compassionate as he could. "For instance, has this therapist been a comfort to you?"

Nicholas started looking a bit confused by the question and he hesitated with his response.

"Well…it's been…a-a long…process, I guess you can say." Nicholas glowered at his hands as they rubbed together in agitation.

Molly recalled his colleague's accounts about the decline of said process. Nicholas was unaware of their prior knowledge and they continued to feign ignorance.

"May I ask your therapist's name, Nicholas?" Sherlock prodded, hoping to uncover any relevant data.

"Um…" He looked from detective to pathologist. "Dr. Elias McKinney," he replied with an expression and tone that escalated in anxiety. Unfortunately the name meant nothing to either of them. Sensing that she needed to say something to put him at ease, Molly reached over to gently touch his shoulder.

"Nicholas…you've been through a lot. Something that most of us wouldn't understand…except perhaps the soldiers among us." She was encouraged to see his apprehension ebb a bit, so she carried on. "And I think you've handled it all with strength and courage."

At that moment, he appeared to be completely unguarded and receptive to her words. Feeling a surge of protectiveness, she hoped to influence him for the better.

"Have you considered a support group of some sort? I'm sure it would help you feel less alone."

Nicholas pulled his eyes away from the woman's kind and well-meaning scrutiny to focus instead on a button from his sleeve.

"I _was_ …for a time."

Molly leaned closer…eager to get some much needed answers.

"Dr. Elias thought I wasn't quite ready for group therapy."

She could feel her growing ire as the portrait of a controlling authority figure began taking shape. An individual with a bit of sway and influence could easily manipulate one with such a fragile mental state.

"I see," she said pressing her lips into a thin line, trying to repress her indignation.

Nicholas continued telling them about the progress he made through regression therapy. As according to the good doctor he had been repressing his memories instead of facing them and processing them in a healthy manner. They determined that his hypnotherapy started soon after Sherlock's return.

Just as Molly opened her mouth to ask about the treatment there was a knock on the door.

"That's him," Nicholas said as he jumped up to open it, prompting the two to stand as well.

Molly's eyes enlarged as the imposing figure of the therapist emerged from the shadowy hallway. A good eight centimeters taller than Sherlock, he towered over Nicholas as the door closed behind him.

There was a definite magnetism about him. Slightly broader then the detective, he stood in an impeccable black suit and tie with a dark grey trench that would rival Sherlock's wardrobe. The clothing contrasted against the silver streaks that ran through his full stock of black wavy hair, which was styled to perfection.

But it was his eyes which commanded such attention it made her stomach clench as his gaze drifted over to hers. His face was handsomely chiseled, his brow was deep set and dark, yet his light grey eyes seemed to glow in the low light of the flat.

As he took a stride in her direction, Molly instinctively stepped back, hitting her legs against the couch behind her, triggering the appearance of a faint smile on the man's face.

Sherlock reached out to steady her before turning to introduce himself, momentarily perplexed by his pathologist's reaction.

"Dr. Elias McKinney, is it?…Sherlock Holmes, but you've already known that," he asserted, taking a step closer while extending his hand.

As the therapist's eyes slid to meet the detectives, Molly saw something almost sinister flash, quickly replaced by an amiable grin.

He met Sherlock's gloved hand with his own leather clad grip taking a step into his personal space.

"Yes, indeed," was his clipped response. They stood toe to toe while Dr. McKinney's accessing gaze raked over Sherlock in a disturbing turnabout.

Feeling a surge of concern, Molly moved swiftly to his side.

While tightly gripping Sherlock's hand, the man spoke over his shoulder to Nicholas in a clear enunciated fashion.

"My boy…would you be so good as to brew my favorite tea….the _Horatio_ blend, please."

Molly was completely focused on Sherlock as the men finally surrendered each other's hands, while Nicholas walked soundlessly behind them to the kitchenette.

She could see that something was afoot by the expression on Holmes' face. His eyes were all fire and ice, attempting to find the answer that was eluding him. She knew it was connected to this Dr. McKinney. She just didn't know how or why.

"I am very much interested in your work, doctor. Hypnotherapy has come a long way since the days it was believed to be utterly fallacious and without merit."

"Undoubtedly it has, Mr. Holmes," the man replied with a small bow. "The mind is still to a large extent a domicile of great mysteries and boundless potentiality."

As Molly stood beside them, completely absorbed with their exchange, Nicholas approached the men from the opposite side of the coach, standing to Sherlock's left.

"The aptitude for transformation is remarkable. Take Nicholas for instance; _his_ conversion has been truly… extraordinary."

The therapist's mouth twisted suddenly into a smile that sent chills up her spine. In that instant Molly saw the look on Nicholas' face…a look that was completely alien to what they've seen from him.

" _Hor-at-i-o_ , Nicholas…horatio," he incited as he took a step back.

At the sound of the man's voice Nicholas' appearance escalated into a mounting fury. Before she could react she watched in horror as a glint of a knife came down onto Sherlock's side.

"STOP, NO…SHERLOCK!" she screamed as the two struggled together. As she attempted to rush to his aid Molly was grabbed from behind and dragged backward into an embrace of iron, feeling the cold steel of a gun barrel press against her temple.

Even with his surprise advantage, the detective was able to disable Nicolas quite swiftly, rendering him unconscious in one move. As his attacker fell to the floor, Sherlock turned to face who he now determined was the true blackguard.

"I must say… _William_ , I confess to being a bit disappointed that you didn't recognize me. Was my influence _so_ insipid?"

Sherlock's sightless eyes grew wide for an instant before narrowing in contempt. He took a tentative step closer to the man but stopped when he heard Molly whimper in pain. Feeling the sudden rise of panic in his gut, Sherlock swallowed hard and willed himself to remain calm. His thoughts threatened chaos at the realization of who stood before him.

"Ellis Nye Makary"

"Ah…how nice. Better late than never, I suppose. Though, I assure you my boy, from this day forward, my indelible impact will be guaranteed."

The man's voice was ripe with ominous satisfaction which only intensified from the flash of fear Sherlock revealed when he heard the telltale sound of a gun's hammer being drawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to hear your thoughts! Lay it on me people!
> 
> A Big thank you must go out to Xelako for the all the wonderful research on psychoneurosis! You Rock!
> 
> And of course...many heartfelt thank yous to my always awesome beta, Writingwife83!


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol...that wasn't a terrible wait was it? so lets get to it!

Molly's eyes squeezed shut when she heard and felt the click of the gun that was pressed to her head. And they snapped open again when she felt the sickening vibration of his laughter while constrained against his chest. She swallowed thickly, feeling the man's arm tighten around her throat.

She saw Sherlock's attempt to hide the anxiety that was etched on his features. Her mind raced to predict how he would want her to proceed, to recall the training that hopefully prepared her for the scenario she now faced.

Panic jeopardized the confidence she needed to stay focused and effective. Her body was stiff, but offered no resistance to his hold. Her arms hung straight down, hands clenching and unclenching as her brain processed her next move.

Than…without warning, it became clear, emerging like a sign from the heavens.

She must somehow get the detective to recognize her intent while disguising her objective from her foe. Praying briefly for the success of her ploy, she set it in motion.

"Pleeaase…wait, d-don't…?" Molly keened, as her body began to tremble and a frightened shrill sprung from her throat. "I need to tell him…please? Before…how I..."

Makery's grip tightened slightly as the panicked women faltered against him. Addled and somewhat repelled by the display, he responded with distain.

"Fine…say what you have to say…just quickly," he bit out.

Sherlock's eyes widened at Molly's aberrant behavior, causing a heightened physical response from the man.

"Sherlock…I…" she sobbed.

"Damn it woman, just spit it out!" Makary thundered.

"Sherlock…." Molly breathed. "…Vatican cameos."

The detective launched himself to the floor as Molly's knee coiled up and with all her might, thrust the heel of her foot toward Makary's leg, hyperextending and breaking his knee instantly. At the same time, drove her elbow into the nerve of his inner arm while her other hand grabbed the top of the gun. Pulling his arm out of joint from the leverage which promptly loosened his hold on her, she spun around, still gripping the gun and with the strength of her forearm she pinned his hand, hyperextending all four fingers backwards until they cracked as well, ultimately relinquishing the weapon into the pathologists hands. While he was at a disadvantage she brought a final devastating upper-cut to his nose with a palm-strike, sending him completely off-balance. As Ellis Nye Makary fell in an anguished heap, Lestrade and his men came rushing in.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the DI.

"Don't worry, Lestrade…" Sherlock said as he rose to his feet with a smirk. "Doctor Hooper has everything well in hand."

…..

Molly smiled as she heard the detective bellow down the hall of the hospital. She sat in the waiting area of the A&E while the man-child had his knife wound tended to. He resisted the idea at first, but acquiesced after she threatened the same bodily harm that Makary suffered.

She shook her head in sympathy for the medical staff as her eyes wandered out the window to the darkening streets of London. She sighed as she leaned her elbow on its sill, running her fingers through her disheveled tresses.

Her mind flashed back to the horror she felt when she saw the considerable blood on Sherlock's white shirt.

She recalled the after-effects of the adrenaline rush that overtook her body when the arrest was made and Sherlock reclaimed her hand. All of a sudden she had begun shaking violently and she felt his strong arm wrap around her waist in support.

"Molly?" His eyes darkened in concern. "Do you need assistance?"

She blushed in his sort-of-embrace and squeezed his hand in reassurance.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm just experiencing the end result of a fight-or-flight response."

"Mm…and fight you did. I'm quite impressed." he said in a soft voice, as he gently tightened his hold on her.

Relaxing against the man's protective clinch, she turned her head to see the same softness in his eyes.

"Well done, Molly Hooper," he whispered, as his thumb caressed the back of her trembling hand.

She leaned her head against his chest, taking a deep cleansing breath before the DI walked up behind them, clearing his throat.

"Hey, you two. Um, I just wanted you to know that Mr. Gadd's in stable condition. They're keeping him for observation and then we'll take him into custody. I'll need your statement and obviously discuss things with Ms. Riley to determine if he'll be charged or not," the DI said with a grimace as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Molly lifted her head but made no move to extricate herself from Sherlock's arms as his hold remained.

"He's a victim too, Greg. I hope we can work something out," she said with a frown.

"Yeah, me too; he's really in a bad way…keeps talking about Kitty Riley's killer and that McKinney bloke."

"Makary, _actually_ and that bit about Ms. Riley's killer is my fault. My theory is that he was completely unaware of his actions regarding the photos. But let's talk about it tomorrow, Lestrade. We'll drop by the Yard in the morning. Right now I'm taking Molly home to rest."

"Oh, no you're not, Mister. You need to have that wound examined," she said with a pointing finger at his chest.

"Pifft…I think not, Doctor Hooper. It's merely a scratch.

A heightened somatosensory system was completely unnecessary to feel the sudden freeze in the air.

…..

The delicate strains of Debussy's Clair De Lune pervaded the flat of 221B as the detective sat by the fire's warm glow. Marveling silently at the beauty which ebbed and flowed in his mind's eye from the resonances, he relished the liquid blues and whites that illuminated his darkness. He wondered if the imagery was influenced by sound alone or if the celestial name was a factor in his chromesthesia.

Forgetting it's impetus, Sherlock savored the visual splendor of it, letting the earlier traumata wash away.

He smiled as he thought of his pathologist slumbering above him. He had convinced her after the irritating A&E visit that it was only logical to return to Baker St. instead of her flat due to the early appointment at the Yard.

After calling upon the kindness of her elderly neighbor for Toby's care, the two arrived back at the flat with some Thai takeaway and a much needed conversation.

"So Sherlock…Ellis Nye Makary…who the _hell_ is he?" Molly stabbed at her share of the Khao man gai as she mulled over the encounter with said maniac. "He called you _William_ ," she remarked in a careful tone, treading softly thru a potentially hypersensitive area. "That could only mean that you knew him either during your childhood or Uni days."

"Mm…well deduced, doctor," he said with a small smile. Taking a deep breath, he laid down his fork on the coffee table and sank back into the couch. Following his lead Molly turned her body to face him, folding one leg under the other. She watched how, as he sat, his mind began to wander back to his early life, his eyes reflecting the years as he recounted his days as an impressionable adolescent.

He had studied his degree-level maths and sciences through Open University as a child, but by the age of seventeen his parents felt he'd benefit socially from Uni life, so Sherlock entered Cambridge to finish his degree plus Masters courses in chemistry.

This also marked the year a scholarly thirty-something doctor named Ellis Nye Makary arrived at the school. As a professor of experimental psychology with postdoctoral research in the cognitive development and neuropsychology of the prodigy, the young Holmes boy proved to be quite valuable to his work and to his theories.

It was this rising-star academic who introduced the concept of "Mind Palace" to Sherlock Holmes, indelibly establishing his impact on the young man's life. The ability to effectively organize and manage the relentless assault of data his brain subjected him to, was invaluable to him. There were however, an increasing number of red flags that signaled an unhealthy predilection to control and manipulation from the mentor and teacher; not just in William's case but with other students under his charge.

Within his second year Holmes and two others assisted Dr. Makary in research that required the use of nootropics, all administered and documented in secrecy. This was Sherlock's first foray into the world of mind altering drugs.

Fortunately Mycroft paid his little brother an unexpected visit when his parents grew worried from long periods of no communication. Needless to say, _that_ marked the beginning of the end for Ellis Nye Makary's promising career in scientific research. He was consequently stripped of his medical license and position at Cambridge and soon drifted into obscurity.

Normally Makary would be someone Mycroft would keep tabs on but at that time his position in the British government was truly a lowly one and by the time of his ascension, the man had completely fallen off the radar, presumably living as Elias McKinney, hypnotherapist - extraordinaire.

By the end of his narrative, Sherlock was sprawled comfortably with his head leaning on the back of the couch, his legs languidly crossed with his ankle just brushing Molly's calf.

Molly's eyes flashed with anger when she realized Makary/McKinney had much to answer for. As helpful as his Mind Palace was, she knew that the drug addiction nearly took his life.

"Now I wish that I hadn't stopped with the uppercut," she grumbled.

His head rolled in her direction as his mouth drew back in a lazy smile.

"That's my girl," he said before he could stop himself. His eyes enlarged slightly as he realized what he just said and how sentimentally familiar it sounded. Yet it tumbled out so naturally…so effortlessly.

Molly froze at the unexpected affection in his voice and words. Catching the less than subtle deer-in-headlights look about him, her shock faded and her face broke into a shy smile.

"Oh?" She wasn't going to let that pass so easily.

"Um…woman, actually…would be more accurate and you're… not… _mine_ …of course."

"Oh?" she repeated in a lower softer tone, looking through her lashes, hoping her second response would echo a bit of affection in return.

Sherlock could feel his ears starting to flush red, inwardly cursing his self-consciousness, yet at the same time feeling as if he'd become too at ease around the petite pathologist.

The detective frowned as he found himself uncharacteristically speechless. He cleared his throat as if to summon the words, but before a rebuttal came Molly cut him off at the same time she rose to her feet.

"I guess I should head upstairs now, Sherlock. I _did_ stay over to get the extra rest before our morning appointment. I think perhaps it would defeat the purpose if we talked all night," she said with a chuckle as he stood up beside her.

"Mm…true," he replied with a grin, trying to hide the awkwardness he felt.

She noted the uncertainty on his face but she thought she saw something else…something not so easily deciphered.

Emboldened by that mysterious something, Molly took a step closer to the detective and gently touched his arm.

"I'd assume a good-night hug would be out of the question…with your knife wound and all," she supposed with a smile in her voice.

"And I would say your presumption is inaccurate, Dr. Hooper, since I _had_ earlier informed you that said wound was merely a _scratch_ ," he replied in a rather moderated timber.

She needed no other invitation as she closed the gap between them, tenderly but without hesitation did her arms wrap around Sherlock's middle. She felt the detective's hands slid freely across her shoulders and his arms held her in a firm embrace. Molly inhaled deeply, allowing herself to relax in the strength of his arms, letting go of the last remaining fretfulness that plagued her.

"I was so scared when I saw your shirt," she confessed in a whisper.

"As was I…when I heard the gun." She felt the low rumble of his voice against her cheek.

Staying like that for another minute, they reluctantly released each other and said their goodnights before Molly padded up the stairs.

…..

The beloved Strad had done its job quite admirably as he sat in his chair facing the warmth of the fire, feeling totally relaxed. But just as Sherlock neared the end of the third movement of the _Suite bergamasque_ he froze in mid-legato. Disturbing flashes began interrupting his synesthetic experience and he felt an alarming pressure behind his eyes, causing him to slowly lower his violin to the floor beside him. As the music stopped, so did the surges of blue and white.

The unnerving color bursts were sporadic at first, intermittent eruptions of yellows and reds. Just sparks of…something. The pressure wasn't painful per say, just a peculiar sensation which incited rapid blinking and a brief shaking of his head.

His stomach pitched when he realized that the flares vanished when he closed his eyes. Still blinking furiously, he sank to the floor on his knees, in front of the radiant blaze. His brow furrowed as he strained to keep his eyes open.

He felt his heart rate rise as the flashes of color became more frequent. His hands started rubbing his knees from the nervous tension before they balled up into fists.

_What…is going on?_

When they grew in duration his breathing became shallow and his eyes widened as he allowed himself to entertain what he'd consider to be a miracle. Permitting himself to hope…even for a moment was _perilous_ to the harmony he was able to salvage from his current predicament… his new normal.

Sherlock licked his lips nervously and jerked slightly when the next burst hit him. It was during _this_ eruption of color that revealed exactly what it was that he was experiencing.

He was _seeing_ the fire.

It was brief flashes of vision…but he was indeed catching sight of the flickering glow of the hearth.

The realization was so overwhelming that his eyes squeezed shut for a moment as if to gather his proverbial wits. He tried to slow his now rapid pulse by breathing deeply multiple times…to no avail.

After sitting on his knees for several minutes with his eyes closed, he laid his hands onto the soft texture of the rug beneath him, so to steady himself for what was to come.

With a racing heart Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to behold an ill-defined, slightly muddled version of his sitting room, the fire being its only light source. An unusual surge of emotion hit him like a wave, causing a cry to strangle in his throat.

He sat completely unmoving as the fuzziness gradually gave way to clarity, revealing the rich variants of color, tone and shade that his Mind Palace version apparently lacked. Soon his restored vision had blurred once again, though not from any impairment; it was the unshed tears that had long been denied.

As the tears silently fell, he stretched out on the floor soaking up in the overwhelming sense of relief. While staring at the warm flickering patterns on the ceiling, he allowed his mind to open certain rooms that had been locked away since his blindness. The dancing display and gentle snapping sounds of the flames had its effect on the man, as he swiftly succumbed to a much needed sleep.

…..

Consciousness descended upon him like a coiled spring, causing his body to bolt upright with alertness, rapidly accessing his surroundings. He relaxed a bit having concluded that the previous night hadn't all been a wonderful dream. He was, in reality, a _sighted_ consulting detective once more.

He observed that it was between five and six in the morning, judging by the filtered sunlight that illuminated the now chilled room. Although the lack of warmth had little effect on the detective as he shot to his feet with one word on his lips.

"Molly," he whispered in a tone that bordered on reverent, while his body spun intuitively in the direction of the slumbering pathologist.

His brain started processing in rapid-fire as his body tore into the hallway that led him to Molly. But just as he reached the threshold to the flight of stairs his hands grabbed the doorsill, propelling his body backwards, thwarting his sprint up the stairs. He stood there with his eyes darting to and fro as he considered the probable outcome of his news.

_The new normal…_

His head reeled at the foreseeable end result. His stomach actually lurched at the idea of everything they've worked so hard to achieve…going for naught. His heart…yes, his _heart_ literally hurt at the thought of being separated from her.

He slowly turned around.

Wandering back into the sitting room, he remained motionless for a time, deep in thought. For how long…he didn't know. Not Until he heard the stirrings of the woman above him did he move through his flat to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

…..

When Molly set her bare feet on the cold wood floors that morning, she wished she had her fuzzy slippers. She grinned at the prospect of keeping them in her tote due to the increased frequency of nights at Baker Street.

Feeling a slight twinge in her neck and shoulders, Molly took a deep breath and carefully stretched out before changing into her spare set of fresh clothes. Wearing a plum-colored micro-knit jumper and a pair of boy-cut blue jeans, she was enjoying the one layer outfits she was able to throw on. She missed her work but not the multi-layers of clothing that was required …even in the summer months.

Rubbing the stiffness from her limbs, she realized how tired she still felt, even after a rather deep sleep. Noticing her hair was still wrapped in a high bun, Molly un-twisted it upside-down, and ran her fingers through her long locks. When suitably tamed, she flipped it back, letting it fall freely down her back.

Absentmindedly dashing about to put her shoes on, she caught her reflection on her way and paused by the mirror with a surprised smile.

_Huh…I don't too look bad, actually!_

Her hair cascaded across her shoulders in long lovely auburn waves. Her porcelain complexion had a rosy glow, despite her fatigue. And her clothes were comfortable yet well-fitted on her petite form. Her overall impression was quite attractive, a natural beauty that was relaxed and effortless, completely without guile or pretense.

_I guess my crazy adventures with a certain detective are agreeing with me…in spite of the random dangers and exhaustion._

Giving herself one last smile, she romped down the stairs to fix some breakfast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will our detective do now, I wonder? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, guys...thank you so much for the awesome feedback and support! It's amazing how on target some of you are in your predictions!  
> I may not be able to PM you all for every chapter but just know I LOVE reading each and every one! So thanks again for taking the time to drop a kind word. It definitely motivates and inspires me to keep chugging along! :D

It was the smell of bacon that roused Sherlock from a strange but intriguing stint in his Mind Palace where apparently a certain pathologist seemed to be ever present. It wasn't just the 'Molly Hooper' of the present, the lovely face which his fingers caressed, but the Molly's of the past as well. Each wing had a Doctor Hooper, as if she were his trusted guide and companion, ever waiting to assist him at every turn.

"Why are _you_ here?" he asked in bemusement as he approached the wing dedicated to the period during his death. A time when the pathologist was conspicuously absent from his life…thankfully so, considering the violence that surrounded him on a daily basis for over 2 years.

What baffled him all the more was that it was 'Christmas Molly', the one whose wounded brown eyes and broken words had haunted him. Although at that moment there was no sadness or distress in them.

In fact, if he had to put a label on it, he'd say she looked…amused.

She stood in her form-fitting black dress and silver bow with her hands casually clasped behind her.

"I think _you_ know the answer to that question, Sherlock," she answered with softening eyes.

His brow creased slightly as he looked down into the openness of her features. Blinking twice, he opened his mouth to speak but realized as his scowl deepened that he hadn't a clue, which needless to say, didn't sit well with the detective.

"I represent something important …something you needed very badly, during _this_ time, in particular." Her sincere gaze searched his puzzled one. She glanced behind her to the door identified only by location, 'PRAGUE'- is all it read. His eyes followed hers to the entry that led to some difficult memories, filled with incidents and individuals better left locked away.

She turned back, their eyes connecting once again. He could see a deep compassion there and something akin to hope.

She knew.

She…who was essentially a part of his sub-consciousness was obviously trying to tell him something.

He already knew she was important and certainly had become vital to his life. But there was something much bigger that loomed, just beyond his grasp.

…..

Sitting up in his bed, his eyes refocused on his surroundings, taking in the subtle details he rarely noticed before his blindness. Like the effect of atmospheric light refraction as it illuminated the floating dust particles that shimmered against its shadowy backdrop.

The sunlit flecks had a hypnotic influence and his eyes almost closed once more till he heard noises from the kitchen. His traitorous stomach rumbled on que as the sounds and smells sent signals of hunger to his brain, recalling his forgotten portion of Thai food from the night before.

Throwing on his blue dressing gown, he silently padded over to his door and slowly opened it to reveal a sight that literally froze him in his tracks.

The morning light set Molly's hair aglow as she softly hummed a tune that had a strongly Celtic influence. Completely focused on her task at hand, the small woman failed to notice the spellbinding effect she was having on the now staring detective.

She amazed him.

Had she always been this beautiful?

He gazed at the gentle waves of radiant auburn; his mind flashing to when he freed Molly's hair from its twist the night they went to Nocturne; remembering how soft it felt. His wide eyes traveled down the rest of her. He swallowed nervously as she moved fluidly from pan to plates, assembling what appeared to be bacon sarnies.

Stunned by the onslaught of bewildering sentiment that seemed to rush his senses, the man stood stock still, unable to tear his eyes away.

As she turned to approach the refrigerator Molly jumped at the sight of the statue-like Sherlock Holmes.

"Damn it, Sherlock…you scared the _wits_ out of me!"

She caught the odd expression in his eyes and again she had to remind herself that he wasn't actually 'seeing' her, even though the look he gave her seemed to pin her to the spot, making her knees weak.

"Ah, yes…sorry." His gaze dropped halfway to the floor. "I was just…listening…to you."

 _What is wrong with me_? He paced slowly to the kitchen table, his hands tentatively running along its surface.

Molly continued to the fridge for the orange juice but kept a scrutinizing eye on the detective.

_He seems…off, somehow._

"Sherlock…" she said facing his back, juice in hand.

"Mm?" he replied over his shoulder as his fingers wrapped around the table's edge.

"Is something wrong?" She could see the tension in his shoulders and his head dip ever so slightly at her question.

He felt a momentary twinge of guilt at his deception, but he needed more time to determine how he should proceed _and_ to find out what, if anything his subconscious was trying to tell him. Plus, if he were to be completely honest with himself…he just wasn't ready to give her up.

Suddenly he whirled around making her jump a second time. He wore an amiable smile but kept his eyes averted.

"No…Molly, everything is…" His grin widened somewhat. '…quite good, actually."

Her concern eased a bit from his words, but his body language sent indications that something was amiss. More often than not the detective managed to feign eye-contact or near enough to it that she'd often forgot he was blind. At this moment however, it appeared more like he was…evading her.

Molly stepped around him, placing the carton on the table and turned to face him. Her proximity was close enough that he needed to shift his eyes away as she looked up into his face.

She was about to press him some more when Sherlock's phone sounded off…"Lestrade," it announced in monotone.

He located a bacon sarnie before plodding into the sitting room to talk with the DI.; making Molly wonder what happened to the man who walked over furniture at the drop of a hat.

_Maybe there's something wrong with his Mind Palace. Maybe things have turned…fuzzy…or something._

She worried her bottom lip while shadowing the man into the sitting room. Hanging up with Lestrade a second later, he stopped short in mid-stride causing the pathologist to collide from the rears.

"For God's sake, Molly…what are you doing?" he asked confounded by her closeness. He turned around to face her but resisted the eye-contact.

Gaping like a fish out of water, she took a step back in surprise and embarrassment before explaining herself.

"Sorry, I…I just wanted to make sure everything is okay with you. You've been acting a bit…odd."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, keeping his gaze below eye-level. _Of course, you're acting odd… you're ACTING blind…idiot, idiot! Don't forget who you're dealing with!_

Molly took a step closer now as she sensed his anxiety. "Can you see?"

Sherlock held his breath from the shock of the question.

"Are you having trouble? I mean, with your…you know, the alternate reality of your Mind Palace? Are you still able to see things…like before?"

Understanding washed over him with a sense of relief and hastily he weighed his options.

"Things…as you put it, _have_ altered a bit, yes."

Her heartfelt expression twisted into a frown when her fears were confirmed. "Oh, Sherlock…" she breathed, as her hands came up to grip his own.

Surprised, yet pleased with the sudden contact he squeezed her hands in return.

"I'll be fine, Molly. I think it's just a temporary…glitch, if you will. My mind palace is continuously in a state of fluidity at any rate. Its variability is nothing new."

"But I always thought that sort of thing was under your control?" she questioned.

He repressed a grin at her cleverness while considering his reply. "The re-organization from vision-centric perception to tactile and auditory modality was involuntary, Molly. Makary was right when he said the mind is still a 'domicile of great mysteries.' I believe that things will return to normal soon enough."

She marveled at his apparent resilience and placidity towards the matter. Thinking it best not to question the man any further but rather to be glad for his positive outlook.

"What did Greg say by the way?"

"Who?"

She gave him a small whack on the arm which inspired his distinctive smirk.

"Kitty Riley is at the Yard. Our presence is requested."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a bit short compared to last chapter but more to come very soon, promise!  
> Love to hear your feedback, as always! :D
> 
> And a great, huge shout out of thanks to the ever lovely and encouraging beta Writingwife83!


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys ever been on a roller coaster?
> 
> I mean, the old school type...the wood, steel and bone shaking type. The type that clicks very very slowly... a billion feet into the sky and sits there for a second before you fall off the earth.
> 
> Well...this is my analogy: During this fiction we've been on a journey, definitely with it's twists and turns and hopefully some fun along the way. But as most of you have shared in your wonderful reviews, there needs to be that final pay off. We've climbed to the very top, anticipation building with every chapter...
> 
> Here, finally...we have the pay off.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the ride! ;D

Sherlock was finding it quite painless… trouncing his guilty conscience.

Especially when the small but fierce pathologist quickly fostered an interesting proclivity for maintaining some sort of physical contact with the man, either holding his hand, arm or even the side of his coat. Knowing of course that it was most likely due to her natural disposition to protect and assist him, he was persuaded he made the right decision in concealing the truth…at least for the moment.

Down at the Yard, Nicholas Gadd was joined with a group of psychologists who helped him piece together the truth of his predicament. Although obviously relieved that Kitty was still alive, he was horrified to learn that through the meta-data in his computer he was in fact the creator of the death photos.

Ms. Kitty Riley was given all the details regarding Nicholas' plight and was allowed to listen to his testimony behind the one-way glass. The detective even shared the rudimentary circumstances involving his connection to McKinney, in order to fully portray the Svengali-like depravity of Ellis Nye Makary. In the end the journalist dropped all charges against Nicholas and offered her support against Makary if they needed it.

Lastly Holmes and Hooper issued their statements for the record; DI Lestrade took Sherlock's, while a new transfer from Leeds took Molly's. Unfortunately for the detective, he had a front row seat to the rather apparent flirting that was going on, at least from the officer's end.

" _Who_ …is that?" the detective asked with acute annoyance.

Greg looked up from his paperwork with a squint of confusion. "What?" the DI shot back, impatiently scanning the room.

"That…" Sherlock gestured to his left. "…constable with Dr. Hooper."

"Oh…that's Walsh. He's in from-"

"Leeds…yes, I know." His accent was only _one_ of the 'tells' he perceived, but kept the others to himself since they were all visual in nature.

He frowned back at Sherlock. "Wait, you haven't met him yet…how the bloody hell do you-"

"I'm able hear his dialect, Graham… _do_ keep up, would you?"

"Actually it's _detective_ constable, mate. It's his first week in London." Lestrade's scowl deepened before he started to wag a finger at him. "And give the kid a break, yeah? I don't want to hear your deductions unless he's an addict, a psychopath or if he's dirty… _understand_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before resuming his eavesdropping. But after a couple more nauseating minutes however, his fingers began drumming on the DI's desk in irritation.

"For pity's sake Lestrade, are we done here yet?"

Just as the words left the detective's lips, there was a burst of laughter from the two, ending with a small snort from the pathologist. Sherlock turned to see Molly with her hand over her smiling lips, looking a bit sheepish and a rather pleased with himself DC, who in Holmes' opinion was conducting himself way too informally.

"Working hard, are we?" Sherlock asserted quite loudly in their direction with an irritated glance.

Molly gave the detective a fleeting look before casting her eyes to her lap with a small grin on her face. Walsh however cleared his throat seriously and shuffled his paperwork, appearing to reorganize his thoughts.

Greg aimed an appraising smirk at the man sitting in front of him, "Cor…" he muttered with a chuckle, shaking his head in amazement. "Well, this just takes the biscuit, doesn't it?" he said in an amused tone and leaned in closer, seemingly to scrutinize an anomaly of sorts.

"You're _jealous_ mate," the DI stated simply, causing the distracted detective to impulsively meet Lestrades' eyes in shock who was immediately taken back by Sherlock's unmistaken eye contact. And the instant look of alarm that replaced the previously vexed one just confirmed his suspicions.

"You…utter…bastard," Lestrade said in a menacing voice.

Sherlock slowly rose to his feet with a furrowed brow. "A word, Lestrade…if you would be so kind," he indicated with a gesture that he wished to be followed.

He stood up as the detective turned toward the door, letting out a weary sigh as he trailed after him, away from the Yard's usual bustle and into the rear stairwell.

Only when the heavy door closed behind them did he turn to address the DI.

"My sight only returned to me last night, Lestrade…the early morning hours, to be precise."

Greg looked at him with confusion and indignation.

"Yeah? Then can you tell me why you're _pretending_ to be blind?…you… prat!" he whispered in outrage, trying desperately to control his volume. "What are you playing at, Sherlock?"

"I'm not _playing_ …Lestrade," he snapped, spinning around to gather his thoughts, trying to stay in command of his emotions.

He took a deep breath before turning to the fuming DI once more, taking the moment to study the righteous anger on his friend's face.

Clearing his throat, he suddenly felt uncertain…unsure as to how to explain his reasoning, realizing at the same time he wasn't entirely sure himself.

"She'll kill you… you know that…when she finds out you've been faking it. You may regret teaching her self-defense, mate."

Sherlock closed his eyes, reluctantly allowing the full gravity of his actions to settle in. "Damn."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed at the ridiculous man in front of him, feeling a spark of pity and even perhaps just a little bit of empathy regarding some of the cock-ups men find themselves in when women are involved, although he had always thought the detective immune to those sorts of things. Maybe when it comes to a certain petite pathologist his dispassionate friend becomes… _susceptible_.

"Look, Sherlock…" The DI rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard to understand the detective's logic. "I'm not going to press you on your motive, yeah? You just need to tell her the truth…and the sooner the better. You must've had some reason…you don't _do_ anything without thinking it through, _that_ I know. My advice to you though, is to spill your guts and hope she'll understand. Molly is pretty good like that, especially when it comes to you."

"When it comes to me?" he echoed unresponsively, but his eyes expressed a peculiar something that rebounded in his stomach.

Lestrade stared back at the apparently clueless man with an incredulous look. "Yeah, mate…you are aware that she's in love with you, right?"

The moment his words hit the air, the peculiar feeling burst into the detective's chest, leaving him slightly breathless. He blinked several times before deviating into his Mind palace leaving a totally bewildered and frustrated DI to make his way back to his paperwork.

Meanwhile Sherlock found himself standing in front of 'Christmas Molly' again…feeling a bit dazed.

"What's going on?" he asked, absentmindedly rubbing a strange ache that was lodged squarely in the middle of his chest.

She gazed up at the flummoxed detective, vaguely amused but mostly just put out by the man's obliviousness.

"Sherlock, how can you be so bloody brilliant and yet…so incredibly _stupid?_ "

"You do recognize that you've just insulted yourself, correct?" he bantered back to the overdressed image of his pathologist, endeavoring to distract himself from what now seemed to be the inevitable.

"Actually… _Holmes_ …"Molly paused to take a step into his personal space, placing her small hand on his chest. " _This_ part of you is entirely and unreservedly…cognizant."

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the suddenly captivating Molly Hooper. Her words as well as her closeness were drawing him in and he swallowed thickly before responding in almost a whisper.

"Cognizant of what…in particular."

She answered clearly and calmly, only not in her gentle often melodious quality, but rather he heard his own deep baritone coming back to him.

"That _you_ , William Sherlock Scott Holmes are _in love_ with Doctor Molly Hopper."

…..

"Greg…" Molly walked over as she put on her coat and scarf, looking around the hustling department. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Huh? Oh, um…you're all done then, I take it?" The DI inquired, grinning up at her while he ran his hand over his rough stubble, trying to work out his response.

"Yep…all through. So glad Kitty decided to drop the charges."

"Yeah, yeah…me too," he said amiably, trying to hide his discomfort.

After a couple of seconds Molly flashed another shy smile. "So…is he in the loo or something?" she asked in a discreet tone.

Lestrade's grin faltered a bit at Molly's easygoing and straightforward manner causing her own smile to fade.

"What's wrong?"

Grimacing at her worried frown, he decided at that very moment what he'd do…or not do, in this case. He refused to get pulled into the big git's deceptions, especially if it involved an innocent like Molly Hooper.

She watched as Greg stood up beside her, without a word took her hand in his own and purposefully walked her through the bustle, down the hall to the rear stairway door.

The DI gave the woman a small sympathetic smile before leaning on the steel door with his back, slowly pushing it to reveal a very still consulting detective, exactly where Lestrade had left him.

Molly took a couple of hesitant steps forward, just passing the threshold and into the stairwell. She stopped suddenly, looking back at the grey haired man with concern in her eyes.

"Is he…okay?"

"The twit's in his…Palace," he said, gesturing with finger quotes and an exasperated eye-roll, which incited a soft giggle from the pathologist.

"I see." She pressed her lips together to suppress another chuckle as she walked a bit closer to the detective.

As he watched them Lestrade suddenly felt like he was intruding. "I'll uh…leave you to it then?" he asked tentatively.

"Sure, it'll be fine." She nodded with an encouraging grin. "Thanks, Greg."

The DI stopped just as he turned to leave. "Oh…and Molly?"

"Mm?"

"When he comes around…ask him if he has an answer to my question."

"Um…" She gave him an inquisitive look. "…okay."

With another nod and grin, he was out the door and back to work.

…..

He was in Milovice, 52 km outside of Prague. He knew exactly which moment this was, which averted crisis he was dealing with. He looked down to see the bloody 20 cm gash that spanned the length of his left deltoid and pectoralis muscles. His scattered duffle was strewn about on the filthy cement floor and he sighed as he looked around at the squalor. Nearby lay an open first-aid kit, the one he kept in each of the bags of essentials that equipped all of his bolt holes. This one in particular was more seamy and ignoble than most, but it was well hidden and right then, that was what mattered.

The accuracy of his Mind Palace was not exactly an advantage in this instance and he grumbled at having to relive the pain and cold for a second time. Naked from the waist up, he shivered as he reached for a black hoodie, having already self-administered the stitches needed to ebb the bleeding; he carefully pulled on the article, wincing in pain as he yanked the zipper up to his neck.

It was Boxing Day…at least back home it was. Remembering it as the second such holiday spent as a dead man; he had actually forgotten just how depressing his surroundings had been.

He sat in the corner of an immense room that formally served as a bunker, once used as headquarters of the Soviet Central Group of Forces. The surrounding facilities was a defunct military base with a labyrinth of structures created during the First Czech Republic and it was the perfect spot to lay low after taking down one of Moriarty's top henchmen.

He had spent the last five and a half months undercover, infiltrating the ranks of Eastern Europe's underworld, winning alliances through his many talents, always telling himself that it was for the greater good. For the final pay-off…when at long last he'd get the chance to cut off the head of the beast.

And he did.

But not without paying a price, physically, emotionally and if he were to even admit to such a thing…spiritually as well. He had been in the pit of the morally depraved and it took its toll on him.

The oppressive cold started to leech into his bones as the weariness began taking hold. He sat with his knees to his chest, staring at the only light source he had, a small portable lantern that illuminated no more than a meter around. And for that he was grateful.

For a moment he very nearly lost himself in the pain and loneliness of it. For an instant…until…

"Sherlock…"

He mentally shook himself as he raised his hooded head to the sound of an angel…the sound of Molly's voice.

Christmas Molly stood in what seemed to be her _own_ light source…literally looking otherworldly in a most unholy setting.

It was almost comical.

In fact, the not-all-there consulting detective began to snicker almost silently, but grew louder by the second…till moments later the man was so overwhelmed with hilarity actual tears were rolling down his face.

All the while the festive-looking pathologist stood quietly staring at the nutter of a detective with a small smirk lurking in the corners of her mouth.

As he began to settle down he rose to his feet and stood in front of woman who literally seemed to be lit from within.

"Molly…what are you supposed to be?" he asked trying his best to keep a straight face.

Looking up at him, her smirk grew into a smile that was so lovely its effect on Sherlock Holmes was to apparently strike him mute and afflict him with that damned fluttering in his gut yet again.

"Don't you remember?"

Frowning at her response he took a step away from her to gather his thoughts, pressing his hands to his temples, attempting to evoke some lost memory.

"You felt it slipping away."

He turned to face her as she spoke. She saw confusion in his eyes as they searched for clarity in hers.

"I don't… understand," he said rather stiffly…as if the very notion was alien to him.

"Your humanity, Sherlock. Your culminated experiences up to Prague…they were slowly stealing your self-worth and self-respect from you. I helped you _believe_ in yourself again."

"How?" he whispered.

She took a step closer to him, her huge brown eyes blazing with something breath-taking… before she uttered one word.

"Love."

…..

Molly approached the static consulting detective somewhat cautiously, not exactly sure of the circumstances that brought him to this spot. She thought it quite odd that he'd be frozen in the Yard's back stairwell when he had not long before been bantering at Lestrade's desk.

Looking up into his face, she noticed his eyes were shut tightly with that slight crinkling of skin between his eyes that she always found endearing. It was usually an indicator that he was mystified or baffled by…something. This piqued Molly's interest all the more as she continued to study his countenance. She noticed that while his arms hung to his sides, his hands appeared rather tense with his fingers spread taut.

Not comprehending _exactly_ how she knew but Molly sensed that Sherlock was at a metaphorical precipice. She yearned to communicate her presence and solidarity but hadn't a clue if he'd even be conscious of her.

Nevertheless she stepped in quite close to him and placed her warm hand on his chest directly over his heart.

Blinking in disbelief, she noticed the hammering pulse in the detective's neck, motivating her to nudge his Belstaff aside so her palm could make contact with his white shirt. The moment her small hand touched his body Sherlock's expression intensified, as his brow furrowed and his eyes squeezed tighter. She could feel the pounding of his heartbeat surge under her fingertips, causing her own to escalate and sync in time with his.

Without thinking she brought her other hand up, almost touching his cheek…hovering just out of reach. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she felt the electric charge that hung between them. Her lingering hand began to tremble from the rush of emotion she felt.

Unable to preserve the distance any longer, her hand lightly brushed his face causing a jolt from both of them as Sherlock's eyes snapped open and locked onto her own.

He searched her face as the reality of his surroundings hit him and she inhaled sharply from the intensity of his stare.

Before he could process what he was doing, both his hands came up to cover hers, his long fingers moving over the warmth of her skin.

Immediately wanting more, he relinquished his hold on her hands to seek out the softness of her face. The moment his fingers traced her delicate jawline, she glimpsed in Sherlock's eyes the likes of which she had never seen before.

She saw fire.

Her breathing became shallow as he slowly closed the small gap that was still between them. Molly's eyes widened as he lowered his face till hers was only centimeters away. His gaze lowered to her mouth while his thumb grazed her bottom lip, sending shivers up her spine.

"Sh…Sherlock…" she managed to breathe out before his lips finally moved onto hers. The contact was light but a shockwave hit the instant the connection happened causing them to tighten their hold on each other. His right hand slipped through her long hair and gripped the back of her head, increasing the pressure of their lips, while his other wrapped around her waist ensuring the fullness of their embrace.

Molly responded in kind, bringing both hands up to comb through his dark curls inciting a small moan from the detective who immediately deepened the kiss. Eventually the want for oxygen intruded upon their moment and they broke apart, taking in some much needed air.

Sherlock rested his forehead against Molly's as they breathed deeply, still holding each other tightly. His brow creased slightly as his brain tried to process all that happened but it was Molly who spoke first. She looked up into his eyes as if she were searching for life's mysteries.

"Sherlock…what's going on?" she asked in a soft but firm tone.

Still keeping his hold on her, he took a small step back and lowered his gaze. Releasing a long sigh, he braced himself for a potentially difficult reaction, not entirely sure how to broach the subject.

Just then something caught his attention and he raised his crystalline eyes to meet Molly's warm brown ones, causing her breath to hitch.

"I thought it was time Molly Hooper that you knew something…" He paused, heightening her already piqued attention and at the same time lowered what was left of his own guardedness.

"I…think you made a fine purchase a couple of months ago," he said with a small smile.

Molly's eyes clouded in confusion. "Purchase?"

"Mm…indeed." He nodded as he glanced down around her shoulders. "Your new coat…the color is very good on you. And the scarf is a lovely compliment to your hair as well as your complexion. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I never noticed the flicks of gold in your eyes before."

Molly stood perfectly still throughout his strange confession. Her eyes, and expression never wavered, as if frozen in time.

After a long minute Sherlock cleared his throat and opened his mouth to continue his admission but was cut off as she took a step away and out of his arms.

"How long?" she asked quietly, staring at the floor.

Sherlock swallowed as his arms lowered to his sides. "Last night…while you slept."

She didn't move a muscle and she gave no outward reaction to his news. They stood there in silence for another minute before her next question.

"Why?"

It was the one word that cut Sherlock's heart like a knife…not because of the question itself, but rather from the raw heartbreak he heard in her voice.

He shut his eyes at the feeling that washed over him. Thinking it reminiscent of the pain he felt when punched in the stomach, he drew a shuttering breath before he followed the DI's advice of spilling his guts.

"I…was selfish," he said as he thrust his hands in his pockets. "I didn't want to…let you go." His eyes were downcast when he uttered those words, not taking notice of the pathologists gaze.

"I was also…afraid, I think." He frowned as he tried to explain his muddled motives. "You've become…important to me. When I lost my sight…it felt as though…part of me was ripped away."

Running a hand through his mop of hair, he paused… gathering the courage he needed to admit the rest.

"When my sight returned…my first thoughts were of telling you. But…I let fear stop me." Still unable to look in her direction he pressed on through his final confession.

"I was afraid to lose you because…you Molly Hooper…have become…part of my whole. To lose you would be like losing a part of me again."

After his own ears heard the words finally spoken, he felt as though a weight had been lifted. He didn't quite know what it all meant yet, but he knew it was the truth.

He wanted to keep Molly Hooper.

He waited for a reaction, his eyes still to the floor. With each passing second the waiting became more and more difficult. But not after a whole minute did the detective find the courage to slowly lift his gaze.

She was not crying (to his great relief)…and she wasn't readying herself to wield a round-house kick to his nether regions.

She was just…staring.

Though he knew right away that it wasn't just any stare. It was the Molly Hooper x-ray into the soul sort of stare. He blinked at her, tempted to offer questions of his own. But after a moment of looking back into her doe eyes he knew that he needed to be a willing subject. So he did his best to wait without guile or complaint.

And after what seemed to be an eternity the pathologist took a deep cleaning breath and slowly turned her back to him. His stomach sank when she took the few remaining steps to the opposite wall and just stood there, head down with one hand on the cement block wall in front of her.

His brain started to categorize all other possible ways he could make amends when she suddenly spun around, strode decisively across to where the detective stood and pulled him down into a passionate kiss. Both hands held his face as her mouth worked against his, causing his brain to grind to a halt in record time. He felt an explosion of heat in his chest as she deepened the kiss. Just as his hand came up to touch the side of her face she broke away from his touch. Lightheaded and dazed he watched as she walked away, turning once to give him a sassy smirk as she yanked the heavy door open, leaving a grinning and stunned Sherlock Holmes wanting just a little bit more of one Molly Hooper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! We've arrived! Please remain seated until we come to a complete stop...lol
> 
> I hope very much that it was worth the wait and didn't disappoint.
> 
> And we are not done yet. I have one more closing chapter to go. It will probably be a bit lengthy but I think that is quite fitting.
> 
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta Writingwife83! You're help and support means the world and stars to me! :D


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FIRST: KUDOS to Arcoiris for noticing my little play on the iconic Sherlolly kiss. I believe you are the only one to comment on that, my dear!
> 
> SECOND: This chapter WILL NOT be the last chapter. There is still too much to wrap up properly and I don't want to end it in a rush...I want to give the story it's proper due.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and the wonderful feedback these last couple of weeks! Each one makes me smile!
> 
> So let's get to it, shall we?

Mycroft rubbed his tired eyes while he sat behind his enormous mahogany desk. Scanning a very long and very tiring communication from Alexis Tsipras, his mobile alerted him of a text and link from Anthea. He frowned slightly when he saw that the link was a CCTV feed from Scotland Yard and it held something of interest regarding his brother.

Just as he was about to access the link, he glanced up to see said brother walking through his door and closing it behind him. He slowly rose to his feet as Sherlock approached the desk and they stood face to face, studying each other, until Mycroft's brow arched in mild surprise.

Sherlock blinked once in slow motion while a sly smile grew in the corners of his mouth.

"You _do_ realize brother mine that this new development will mean subjecting ourselves to one of Mummy's emotional episodes."

The detective's eyebrows shot up while his gaze fell. "Mm…true," he said inhaling deeply as he idly picked at the gilt bronze Louis XIV inkwell. "What would you suggest? I for one would think it unwise to keep her in the dark;" his eyes once again locking with the older man across from him. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Mycroft let out a wearied sigh before sitting down again. "Yes…I suppose it is unavoidable considering the circumstances. She may be a bit disappointed however, that the likelihood of a weekend visit with you and Dr. Hooper has now diminished significantly. You really _should_ thank me for the weekly dissuasive conference calls I've had regarding one form of social gathering or another. _The parents_ have become quite persistent as of late."

Sherlock attempted to quickly conceal his reaction at the unexpected mention of Molly's name…but failed. He could see a ghost of something resembling a smirk on Mycroft's face as his attention returned in measure to his mobile and the CCTV link with renewed curiosity.

"Your timing, Sherlock, couldn't be better, in fact. It enables me to get an immediate explanation to what I'm about to see." Mycroft's smile inspired a slight scowl to appear on his brother's face.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've been sent a CCTV feed from the Yard that has promised to be of some importance…regarding _you_ , actually," he commented with a raised eyebrow and a pointed stare. "Intriguing, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock's scowl morphed from one of shocked realization to controlled indignation as he quickly closed in on his brother's mobile, covering it with his long fingers while Mycroft's grip tightened all the more.

" _That_ …is none of your business, _brother mine_ ," he said through clinched teeth.

The tension thickened by the second as the brothers continued to glare at each other.

Suddenly Holmes the elder released his hold on the phone, letting his hand return limply to his side. Even as he quit one struggle, Mycroft dispassionately targeted the younger with his piercing capacities to uncover every enigma and secret, provoking Sherlock to close his eyes in efforts to shield his soul.

Resolve to keep his brother guessing began to slowly disintegrate, just as he heard Mycroft stand to his feet. His eyes trailed him to Her Royal Majesty's portrait and watched him pivot the frame to reveal a large safe that was hidden behind it.

By the time the item was retrieved Sherlock had narrowed down the likelihoods to one of three objects and the moment Mycroft turned around he saw that he was right. He carried with him two small velvet boxes and stopped directly in front of the younger man.

Sherlock's lowered gaze remained fixed on the boxes while Mycroft continued to study his sibling.

"I must confess …I've never seriously weighed the probability of you in a… _committed relationship_ before. Although if I had…I'd imagine it _would_ be with the pathologist."

Mycroft's tone was unflappable as ever, but as Sherlock slowly met the man's eyes he saw a softening that hadn't been there formerly.

"I've observed a fundamental difference between us, brother. I and my work thrive in solitude, while yours…well…" Mycroft smiled weakly before continuing. "Yours prospers with a supporting cast of a trustworthy few. And I would venture to say the conclusive evidence can be found in the recent events surrounding your greatest challenge."

With that he snapped open one box to reveal a simple but elegant 1.5 carat pear cut solitaire diamond set in platinum.

As Sherlock took the ring he remained outwardly composed; all except for the hard swallow which was undoubtedly the true indicator of his emotional state.

Mycroft opened the other box to reveal two wedding bands, also in platinum.

"It is fortunate that our grandmother was also a rather small woman. I don't believe the rings would even need to be sized." After he placed the rings in Sherlock's other hand, Mycroft straightened his back and delivered an especially penetrating look.

"I just ask one thing brother, and with this I require you to give me your word." He took a small step into Sherlock's personal space and leaned in close as if to impart a matter of extreme consequence.

"Promise me… _when_ you inform our parents of the restoration of your sight and of your upcoming marriage…that I am mercifully _absent_."

…..

Molly sat at her desk finishing up the last bit of paperwork for the day. Mike Stamford spent hours with her, reviewing the past 3 months of work, giving Molly the opportunity to critique the surprisingly fine efforts from the interns, making sure it was all up to her high standards. There were just minor tweaks to be done which she took upon herself to do as they were her own personal criteria. Mike literally glowed with pride from her compliments but told her he was glad to have her back all the same.

As she turned off her computer she heard the heavy swing of the doors and glimpsed the familiar flourish of Belstaff and dark curls as she removed her lab coat before hanging it on the back of her chair.

The detective approached silently from behind and she pressed her lips together in an attempt to hide a lurking smile. They hadn't seen each other since the kiss in the stairwell…well, _kisses_ really. That was two days ago. There _were_ continuous texts however…mostly from Sherlock, to her amazement. It was he who contacted _her_ that very night. At 2:30 AM she received a text "to confirm whether they were in fact, _good_."

**Yes Sherlock, we're good…as long as you're always honest with me from now on. MH**

**Understood. SH**

She knew it must have been difficult and confusing for him to process through his feelings. God knows it was hard enough to accept the reality of them _herself_. For as long as she's wanted this, she couldn't seem shake the creeping doubts. Mostly in the wee hours her thoughts would prey upon her. She feared that as his need for her diminished, so would his feelings. Would he still want her when his world returned to business as usual?

But then in the light of day these torments would begin to wain with the arrival of his surprisingly regular texts.

They weren't about anything particularly important. Just the little happenings throughout the day. He would complain of the lack of cases, or at least the lack of interesting ones. And on two separate occasions he even asked her opinion, one was whether to take a case that appeared to be a three but had potential to be a five or even a six. The other was regarding the when and how to inform the press about the recovery of his sight. She was stunned to hear that he was even considering contacting Kitty Riley.

It was nice.

In as much as their new normal had vanished like London fog on a sunny morning, there _still_ was the connection between them. She sensed it. And when she turned around to see his shining eyes and a small grin, she knew he did too.

"Hi," she said a bit too demurely, she thought.

His grin matured into a smirk. "Long day?" he asked as he regarded her whole appearance.

With a lowered gaze, she self-consciously tucked the errant strands of hair behind her ears before Sherlock took a step closer and arrested both her wrists. Her eyes locked onto his as he released her and moved his fingers along both temples and into her hair, loosening the tidied locks so that they fell softly around her face once more.

"It was not a criticism, Molly…just an observation. There is no need for improvement, I assure you." His right hand lingered briefly, tracing the contour of her jaw before clasping both his hands behind his back.

She was blatantly staring at him, powerless to tear her eyes away from the most unusual expression she had ever seen on the man's face. If she was pressed to describe it, she'd say he looked…besotted.

Sherlock _also_ seemed unable to break their gaze, feeling as if he were caught yet liberated all at once. "Would you like to have dinner?"

Molly's eyes grew wide, remembering John's clarification of that word's double meaning. Picking up on her reaction, his own eyes immediately mirrored hers.

"Food! I meant…eating…the intake of sustenance for the purpose of…nutrition."

Molly did her best to hide her amusement as a slow flush creeped up the detective's neck. She watched as he close his eyes briefly before releasing a frustrated huff of air.

"I'll get my coat," she said, quickly retreating to the locker room, secretly enjoying the unusual turnabout of awkwardness.

_I can…without doubt…get used to this!_

…..

Her face was tilted in Sherlock's direction as she reclined against the car seat. She knew that he was aware of her gaze but somehow it didn't bother her. It would seem that her self-consciousness around the man had finally disappeared and thankfully so. She relished the freedom she felt around him now.

He was the same…yet different. He was still very Sherlock…which she was glad for. She loved him the way he was, but she knew that if a 'relationship' would ever have a chance for success there would have to be a shift in his thinking.

She knew that he was capable of it. He did it for John.

Molly remembered the subtle change in him; the breadth of the walls he lived behind began to alter to accommodate someone else. It was good for him. It was good for the others too…the others who cared but had been unsure of where they stood in his heart. Moriarty, the fall and his return, made it all clear that they _were_ important to him. And it literally took blindness for the detective to truly see where he stood in theirs.

It was a temperate morning for early December, which inspired the detective to open his window. She studied his chiseled profile and how the breeze moved through his unruly mop of hair. She was surprised at how comfortable he seemed behind the wheel as England's countryside whizzed past them.

Per his request, she had arrived bright and early at Baker Street. She knew he was up to something, but played along when he wasn't forthcoming, content to just sit and sip her hot brew. That was until the detective spotted something of interest street-side and turned to put on his coat and scarf.

"Come along, Molly…our ride is here," he said with a quick grin as he tossed her coat into her lap before heading casually down the stairs.

She rolled her eyes as she was forced to abandon her steaming mug to trail after the insufferable man, knowing how he very much enjoyed keeping her guessing.

Molly was quite surprised when instead of entering the waiting black cab the usual way, Sherlock briefly spoke with who she assumed was the cabbie, relieved him of his keys and promptly sat in the driver's seat.

She stood gaping at the detective-turned-cab-driver until he lowered his window and with feigned impatience did he snap her out of her stupor. "Doctor Hooper, we do in fact have somewhere to be, so unless your legs have suddenly grown roots, would you please get into the car."

With that she instinctively reached for the backseat door until Sherlock stilled her arm. As she stopped, she looked at him with a confused expression till he motioned with his head to the seat next to him.

"I'm _not_ actually undercover as a cabbie, just borrowing the taxi… which means you are not my _fare_ , Molly. I'd prefer you sit _beside_ me then behind me." He gave her arm a playful squeeze and a wink before turning back straight in his seat.

A slow smile reached her face as she walked across the car to the passenger side, all the while feeling his gaze follow her to the seat next to him.

"So where to then?"

"I have high hopes that you will soon deduce it," he said with a smirk before peeling out into the morning London traffic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> And to the lovely Writingwife83...thanks for taking the time during your R&R...you're so good to me!


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are...the final chapter; albeit a very, very long final chapter. Hope that's okay with all of you. ;) I need to warn the more hard-boiled of my readers out there...this will be extremely high on the FLUFF-O-METER! LOL...I do not apologize for it, however; nay, I embrace my propensity for the 'happily ever after'. ;D My final notes will be at the end, so off you go...

 

 Molly tried, but failed to conceal her growing smirk as Sherlock made his final adjustments securing his scarf over the pathologist's eyes.

"Is this really necessary, Sherlock?" she asked in a tone that she hoped veiled the amusement she felt.

"The answer to that question, Molly, is a definite no…" He leaned in close enough that she felt his breath on her neck. "It's just a lot more fun this way," he added with a smile.

The last thing she saw before the blindfold was stopping alongside a road that cut through a thickly wooded area. Her curiosity piqued as she felt him take a firm hold of her hand before leading them through terrain that was most certainly unpaved. When her foot came down on a large stone a bit unsurely her grasp on the detective tightened, attempting to sightlessly traverse the uneven ground.

Sherlock frowned slightly as they continued deeper into the woods. "Mm…I don't remember it being this steep."

"Steep?" she echoed just before her foot caught a tree root, sending her flying forward and into the detectives arms who had quickly turned to catch her fall.

"Well, _that_ decides it," he remarked before scooping the off-balance pathologist up into his embrace bridal-style, causing her to yelp in surprise.

"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell is going on?" she cried in alarm, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Just a little adventure, Dr. Hooper," he said with a wide grin as he effortlessly carried the petite woman down the timbered slope.

A short minute later they came to a stop and he set her back on her feet again. "Here we are," he said with a touch of nervousness only she could discern.

"Um," she hesitated; "Can I take this silly thing off my head, then?" she asked trying to contain a giggle.

"Yes...of course…here," he said a bit awkwardly while he helped remove the scarf.

When Molly opened her eyes she blinked twice before her hands flew to cover her mouth and a broad smile spread beneath her fingertips as she took in the unusual sight.

"Your ship," she whispered, while they both stood gazing up at the pirate ship in the tree.

He watched her reaction intently, a bit puzzled as to why he was so pleased with her apparent excitement. And excited she was, as she took several tentative steps to get a closer look. Eventually standing almost underneath it, she stared up in awe slowly turning in a circle with her arms fully extended at her sides. "It's…amazing, Sherlock," she breathed. "It's so…big!

"Yes, well…" he said pausing with a smirk. "I _did_ say it became quite elaborate, but it's possible you missed that, as you _were_ fast asleep on my shoulder."

Molly looked up with a smirk that rivaled his own, taking a step closer to him. "Actually, _Mister…I_ do recall you mentioning that. Maybe I wasn't as _unconscious_ as you think I was." Her eyes twinkled mischievously when she saw his eyes widen slightly.

She spun unexpectedly to move under the trapdoor, standing with her hands on her hips. "There's a rope ladder, I believe," she asserted, gazing above her head. "Permission to board, Captain?"

Sherlock smiled as he stepped over to the massive oak and picked up what looked like a sturdy walking stick. Moving beneath the hatch he stretched the rod up to push against the small door, unlatching the closure, causing it to swing downward and unraveling the bundled ladder that hung loosely to it.

"Granted the paint's a bit faded, but its structural integrity has been faithfully maintained. I'll go first…need to make sure there are no stowaways in the form of bushy-tailed bandits," he said with a smirk.

Molly chewed on her lower lip as she peered up with repressed enthusiasm as Sherlock bounded up into the tree house with great agility. A moment later he appeared with a boyish grin. "The coast appears clear, Doctor…ready when you are," he said, offering an arm of support at the end of her climb.

The small pathologist scrambled up the ladder with a fervor that instigated a low chuckle from the detective. As she reached the last rung Molly gripped his proffered hand and squeaked from the unexpected strength of his tug which propelled her quite handily into his arms.

"I've got you," he said, mirroring her amorous expression.

"Yes…" she said as she clung to him, still rather spellbound by his closeness, "…you do."

Halfheartedly they relaxed their hold on each other as Molly looked around with growing wonder and marveled at the surprisingly homey interior. There were rope-woven rugs scattered about the floors and the walls were painted with deep rich colors that had indeed greyed, but still gave off a warm coziness that she found endearing. They were lined with shelves of books, jars and trinkets that stood testimony of a childhood which overflowed with voracious curiosity.

Rays of dappled sunlight cascaded through an oddly shaped window that was quite large and timeworn, having been salvaged from some grand old house. It flanked half of the lofty structure and the overall effect was reminiscent of an aftcastle on a 17th century Galleon. Below the window appeared to be a makeshift pallet with layers of heavy quilts and old tapestry pillows. Along with a variety of oil lamps, lanterns and candlesticks on the shelves and an old steamer trunk, there was a distinct impression that a young Sherlock spent many a night in this place, as well as his days.

Despite the age of it all she was surprised it was so well-kept. There were no layers of dust or even the odd cobweb to be seen.

"I think more than just the structure has been maintained, Sherlock," she remarked as she picked up one the books that lay on a small chest next to the window. And suddenly it dawned on her.

"This is one of your bolt holes, isn't it?"

The detective arched an eyebrow at her, endeavoring to hide his delight at her deduction, but said nothing as he turned toward the 'ship's bow,' on the opposite side of the oak tree which ran though the center like the main mast.

Replacing the volume to its former spot, she followed Sherlock around the tree to find him climbing again; this time through an open hatch in the ceiling and the makeshift 'ladder' was nothing more than toeholds running up the side of the tree trunk.

Molly continued to shadow him through the roof and eventually up another three meters to what she remembered him dubbing the 'crow's nest.' Recalling also that it was sturdy enough for one child, (not two adults) she paused to look up hesitantly.

"Um…Sherlock?" _It's a good thing I'm not afraid of heights, I guess._

Once again the man looked down through the opening with a smirk. "Your concern is unwarranted, Doctor. Probability would dictate that the construction would most likely be over-engineered, wouldn't you agree?"

She rolled her eyes before cautiously ascending what felt more like a rock-climbing wall than a ladder. As her head and torso cleared the floor of the 'crow's nest,' she felt Sherlock's large hands circle around her waist and pull her to safety.

As he closed the hatch that served to be most of their floor, Molly gazed about her, completely awestruck. Even though they were mainly camouflaged within the leafy limbs of the great oak, there were 'sky holes' that revealed a magnificent view. The railings reached above her waist and ran along the opposite side of the tree. She was just able to walk clear around it, giving her a 360 degree outlook of her surroundings.

As she rounded back she found the detective seated on a semi-circular bench that spanned most of its diameter. It was tight quarters but a bit bigger then she had envisioned it to be; although she'd be _literally_ pressed to fit beside him, especially in his current position of widely crossed legs with a hand gripping his ankle on his knee and the other arm sprawled over the back of the railing beside him.

She decided she'd rather take the moment to appreciate the unusual setting, so instead of sitting, she knelled on the bench facing the landscape. Leaning with her elbows on the banister next to a suddenly quiet Sherlock Holmes; she attempted to distract herself from his closeness. As she scanned the horizon her eye caught part of the roofline of a cottage that was no more than 50 meters away.

"Is that your parents' house?" she asked in a burst of curiosity. "The one with the grey roof?"

"Mm…indeed," he mumbled, languidly shifting his attentions to the pathologist while bending his arm to rest his chin on the heel of his hand; he noticed how the light danced over her long auburn tresses as they drifted softly in the breeze.

Sherlock found himself transfixed by the unassuming beauty of this woman. And when one of her locks brushed the back of his arm, he promptly captured it, winding it gently between his long fingers.

When she turned to meet his gaze she was held by the man's captivating stare and sat back on her folded legs, her thoughts briefly muddled by the depths of Sherlock's eyes.

"What were you saying?" he dreamily inquired after a moment, bringing the piece of Molly's silken hair to his lips, his expression very much betraying the fact that he'd rather not be talking at all.

She swallowed thickly as she watched him caress his mouth with her lock of hair that was twisted around his fingers and forcibly tore her eyes away to focus on the treetops just beyond them.

"Um…" her brow ceased in concentration as she endeavored to direct her brain to its previous point. "Your parents…"

"Ah, yes…" His eyes twinkled at her fluster. "What about them?"

She shot him a quick glance before answering his question. "Well, I never actually met them. I mean, I talked with your mum…on the phone briefly after…your fake suicide. Mycroft meet with me soon after you left."

Sherlock brought his hand down to the railing but didn't release her hair.

"Mm…I assumed you had _some_ sort of contact since you had her number. I told them by the way."

"Told them?" she asked, obviously not following.

"Yes…about my sight."

"Oh…" Molly blinked at him in surprise.

"What?"

She gave a small shrug. "No, I just thought you were going to tell them today, I guess. You know, surprise them," she added with a small grin. "It would have been nice, that's all."

"Mm… At least from my mother, the emotional fallout would have been considerable, I assure you."

Molly looked down, fiddling with the end of her scarf. "She was lovely, you know…when we talked."

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

"Back when you were dead…" she clarified. "She thanked me…you know, for…" She hesitated before looking up through her lashes.

"For killing me…hiding me…or saving me?" Sherlock's expression had turned suddenly serious as he regarded his own words.

She gave another little shrug. "Something like that, I guess. I was never really sure how much your parents actually knew."

"She knew that her son and three others were alive because of you. That's all she needed to know," he said in a soft voice, lowering his gaze thoughtfully. "My trust in you was _clearly_ justified. I think Mycroft once declared you guileless as a dove," he added with a faint smile.

Molly blinked at him several times, clearly contemplating his words. Almost immediately the openness in her eyes clouded and her demeanor became abruptly somber.

The detective's eyes narrowed at the instant change. "I've said something to upset you," he said in the form of a statement rather than a question.

The pathologist frowned as she shook her head vehemently, carefully avoiding any eye contact.

"I'm not," she said in a voice no louder than a whisper.

"Molly, it's pointless to try and deny the obvious; especially with…"

"No…" she said, cutting him off. "I'm not…guileless, Sherlock."

His mouth was still slightly open from speaking the instant before and his brow crinkled in confusion as he considered her words.

Molly took a deep breath, hoping it would strengthen the resolve she needed to come clean.

"I deleted a voice mail on your phone."

His flummoxed expression remained unaffected.

"A voice mail from Collin. He…he left it while you were in the shower, after _your…errand_ that day."

There was only silence in the face of her confession, so she chanced to look up from the knotted fingers in her lap to the confounded scowl on the detective's face.

"I don't understand, why did you delete it?" he shot off, completely unaccustomed to the level of bewilderment he found himself in.

"I…well, you see, I…" Molly stuttered as she looked into Sherlock's oddly perplexed eyes and wondered how she was going to explain this one. "I…was a bit of a captured audience, I'm afraid. You had tossed your mobile on the desk and it was still on voice-mode when you got the call…"

"Go on," he said, obviously more curious then annoyed at this point.

So instead of beating around the proverbial bush she decided to just say it. "Collin said he understood why you wanted to…I think he said…keep me to yourself."

His eyes widened fractionally as he grasped the magnitude of her admission.

"And that it was about time that you…" Molly's eyes found his before she continued. "…That you…realized what you had."

Sherlock could see the mixture of nervousness and hopeful devotion as he studied her face. In as much as he hated being discovered this way he appreciated that it wasn't the first time Molly unmasked the truth and he was somehow strangely relieved because of it.

Molly broke their gaze so as to finish relaying Collin's intercepted message and to finally be done with the business.

"He added also…that in case…things between us didn't work out…" she looked up with a twinkle in her eye. "You could feel free to pass along his number."

"Psft…unlikely," he retorted with a touch of brashness.

Molly caught his rather brazen air and was tempted to ask him what _exactly_ was 'unlikely', but decided against it. She was pleased to find that he wasn't as furious or disappointed as she feared he'd be. In fact, he seemed almost…contented.

She nibbled the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, while all her tantalizing questions came rushing back from when she first heard Collin's voicemail.

Sensing her growing curiosity on the subject Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and developed a sudden interest in the surrounding fauna. She reluctantly decided against pressing him further, feeling thankful that he wasn't too upset with her deception.

"So…you're not mad then?"

He glanced back at her with a look of tempered amusement. "No…" he answered with some hesitation; "but… I think I'll be forced to inform my brother that you're not quite the dove he assumed you were."

A half-smirk grew on the pathologists face as they sat contentedly observing one another.

"There _is_ something else…" Sherlock said with raised brows and a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Oh?" _What's this now?_

"Yes…your conversation with Kitty Riley; on the topic of evidence going back as far as my adolescence?"

"Oh, _that…"_ Molly said, suddenly understanding his previous interest in the fauna.

"Yes…that," he said with a grin. To which the woman rolled her eyes and shook her head in an air of surrender.

"Fine…remember when we first met?" she asked as she repositioned herself on the small bench, prompting Sherlock to better accommodate her.

"You know as well as I, Doctor Hooper, that said period in my life is a bit sketchy," he replied stiffly.

"Yes, I know…you were still on your last week of rehab when we met. I was almost through my first year of internship when Lestrade brought you in to deduce _your_ very first corpse, at least officially," she added with a small smile.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly at the memory. "Ah, yes…the man who was bludgeoned by his loving wife instead of the hopelessly daft housebreakers."

"Mm, yes…poor man," molly said attempting to hide her amusement from his comment. "Anyway, you were…" Molly briefly thought about editing herself but wondered to what end. It seemed honesty was the order of the day, so she decided to just speak her heart. She took a deep breath and locked eyes with the man that seemed dangerously close.

"You were so…bloody brilliant," she said with all the suppressed awe and affection she had in her, finally feeling free to express her long pent up regard for the insufferable genius. "You had such a chip on your shoulder." She looked off with a faraway expression as she recalled her first impressions. "And you were a total git to Greg…and don't ask who, or I'll punch you!"

At that threat Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. He was secretly astounded at how much he was enjoying himself…lolling in the treehouse with his pathologist…doing nothing _but…talking._ John and Mary wouldn't have believed it.

"You were rude, arrogant and without a doubt the most extraordinary intellect I had ever met. I didn't like you much." Molly smiled at the man with an openness that inwardly took his breath away.

"I mean, I thought you were incredibly hot, but…" Her hand came up over her mouth and she let out a low chuckle. "I can't believe I just said that."

Sherlock's grin widened at Molly's flushing complexion but remained silent, hoping she'd continue.

She shyly fiddled with her scarf again, trying to gather her thoughts.

"I think it was after your third visit to the morgue that I knew I was in trouble."

Sherlock's grin faltered a bit and she saw a touch of apprehension in his eyes.

"My heart, Sherlock…was in trouble." She glanced up with a weak smile. "I suspected I was no longer in custody of it and I wasn't quite sure if it was safe," she said, casting her eyes downward again before she had the chance to catch the sudden frown on the detectives face.

"You had just deduced the reason why Mr. Brown had both a star-shaped bruise on his neck and rope burns around his right wrist and ankle." She had a look of resigned acceptance that was shadowed in sadness.

"It was then when I knew…"

Butterflies took flight in her stomach as the words crystalized in her brain and had at that very moment formed on her tongue. Even with her lowered gaze she knew she had his complete attention and when she opened her mouth to continue, his eyes widened just slightly in anticipation of what she was about to say.

"I knew I was…falling in love with you."

As the words were uttered, she felt them electrically charge the air around them. And as bold as she was to admit her feelings aloud, her courage failed her with the thought of meeting his eyes.

"I…had never in my life felt that way. I mean, I had a few boyfriends in the past, but there was never anything…special. I always knew my heart was my own. I thought maybe my work had short-circuited my desire for love…that the blessing of a single-minded determination grew to be a curse of the heart." She paused with a sad smile. "I remember how dad described the way he felt when he met my mum. Love was defined for me by my parent's experience, like it or not. If it never happened for me, I was okay with that. It was all or nothing."

Sherlock remained quiet. But his inner monologue was something different. This data…about his pathologist…about Molly Hooper…was all new. Of course he knew that her work was important to her. It _had_ to have been. Considering her age and unfortunately her gender, as well…it had to have been an uphill climb, with years of overtime and tireless dedication. It sounded very much like his own path. The reasoning was perhaps different but the effect was the same. The only real departure was his own reticence in allowing true love to find him. He had done everything he could to dismiss it as a weakness and a hindrance. But knowing Molly Hooper has been anything but. She had made him better.

"When you came into my life, Sherlock, you threw me for a bloody loop. I didn't know what to think about you. You were a constant distraction to me. And part of it had to do with…" Molly frowned a bit, finding it hard to admit. "Part of it had to do with believing you were too good to be true. I mean, you obviously had issues. You were recovering and you were fairly obnoxious most of the time; so you were far from perfect in that way." She glanced up briefly to see him arch an eyebrow in mock offence, to which she responded with a sheepish grin.

"It was your mind…the marvelous way your brain worked. I swear you'd come into my nice quiet morgue like a wrecking ball, make a five minute deduction of a corpse, solve a case that baffled the whole department and I'd be left thinking about you the rest of the night. You were incredible."

Molly inhaled deeply as she felt Sherlock's gaze heavy upon her, but carried on.

"As hard as I tried, I couldn't get you out of my head. I realized it was because I couldn't get you out of my heart. I loved you. And when I finally admitted that to myself I needed to make sure you were for real."

She paused a moment, tilting her head to one side as she considered her next words.

"So I decided to do some detective work of my own. It didn't take me long to find out you were as legitimate as they come, genuine brilliance with genuine blunders and imperfections. But that didn't matter so much to me. We all have our faults. I just needed to know I could believe in you. And once I did, there was no turning back for me."

Molly suddenly had the sinking realization that she may have shared too much. She knew how uncomfortable he was in sharing emotion. Even though they seemed to have arrived at a place of deeper honesty, could she have in her enthusiasm for this new found freedom, unintentionally crossed a line she shouldn't have?

With this feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, she turned abruptly to stand once again toward the distant roof-line of Sherlock's childhood home. Her fingers gripped the railing in front of her as the silence stretched between them.

When in her periphery she saw him rise from his seat and move directly behind her, she thought he did, in fact, have enough sentiment for one day and she was obstructing his only means of escape, the hatch below her feet.

So reluctantly Molly turned around to face the man. But instead of looking up to see the detective's reproachful stare, she found herself looking down…into the crystalline eyes of a kneeling Sherlock Holmes.

"I haven't quite succeeded in assuring your safety, have I?"

She shook her head slightly and blinked at him in confusion, not understanding at all what he meant or what he was doing.

His brow lined in frustration as he glanced away, breaking their gaze. His hand raked through unruly curls, while his other tightened into a fist as it rested on his bent knee. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, before releasing an audible puff of air.

"I _am_ sorry Molly Hooper…I never wanted you to feel unsafe in my presence, even with something as metaphorical as the heart. You should always feel…protected."

His brain reeled with how many ways he didn't deserve her and the dismal likelihood that Molly's heart would remain unscathed. Doubt began to etch his features as his eyes appeared to search the distant horizon for a clear answer.

All the while, Molly stayed transfixed, perceiving the turbulent thoughts that flickered across the detectives face. She felt as if they were at an unexpected crossroads and Sherlock was on the verge of retreat.

"Sherlock…?"

The sound of concern in Molly's voice interrupted his inner chaos, snapping him back to the purpose behind his current position.

"Molly," he whispered huskily, searching her face as if she were the key to an elusive puzzle. "I…want you to be…happy."

At that moment Molly could see Sherlock's heart in his eyes, all the desire and doubt, all the trepidation and longing. But in an instant she saw one _other_ thing that turned her despair to euphoria. Something that inspired a complete change in the woman's previously confused and fearful demeanor.

She saw love.

Molly's eyes shimmered with pure delight as an unrepressed smile spread slowly across her face. Her small hand gravitated to the side of Sherlock's cheek and his attention was held captive by the warmth of her touch.

What she said next was spoken out of sheer instinct, a strong impulse to make the truth clear, to empower him see her the way she sees him.

"You…make me happy, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you see? It's always been you… Always."

As her fingers slowly traced the contour of his face, she saw the spark of love in his eyes turn into a burgeoning flame and watched him pull out a small velvet box from his coat pocket.

Her eyes grew wide in shock as her gaze traveled from his hands to his face, revealing a man who was very much outside his comfort zone, yet also displayed a steely resolve that gave rise to a lump in her throat.

Sherlock's heart began to gallop hard as their eyes locked together. Besides the obvious astonishment he saw on her face, he observed something else…a hope long denied.

Molly swayed slightly and her hand fell to the detective's shoulder for support, prompting him to gently guide her to sit on his knee.

"Molly Hooper…" He encircled her slight form as she wrapped one arm around his shoulder and her other hand over his heart.

"This…is…" He faltered, sidetracked by her now _very_ close proximity, prompting the skin between his eyes to crinkle. "Um…"

The hand that lightly grazed the back of his neck now began to nimbly card through the thickness of his hair, during which Molly's grin turned a bit playful. "You were saying?" she asked rather impishly.

Endeavoring to continue, Sherlock willed himself to focus on the pathologist's warm brown eyes instead of her rather inviting lips. "This is not my…" His eyes flickered down to her mouth. "My…"

_"Area,"_ they said simultaneously. Sherlock heaved a deep sigh while Molly chuckled softly, gently leaning her forehead against his.

Renewing his efforts to tread uncharted waters, the detective cleared his throat and turned suddenly serious, which only resulted in exasperating Molly's laughter.

_"Molly…"_ he warned in a starched tone, causing her to snort before hiding her mouth with her hand. The small woman pressed her lips together to suppress any further merriment and nodded appropriately.

Sherlock's own lips twitched with amusement as he attempted to persevere. "You _are_ sabotaging any sort of plausible defense in favor of sentimental distraction; you _do_ realize that, don't you?"

"Sorry," she replied with reserve, her eyes twinkling at the man's struggle with romantic overtures, but doing her best to show her undivided attention.

It took him another moment to gather himself again, handling the ring box nervously in his hands. Molly briefly glanced down at said box which was effectually in her lap as she sat partially on his.

And when she looked back into his eyes Sherlock could see all the affection that had long been concealed from him.

It took his breath away.

Blinking several times, he cleared his throat before dropping his gaze to stare at the small box and swallowed hard as he clicked it open.

"I'm not what you deserve, Molly Hooper," he said with a small frown. "By virtue, only someone with the same unfathomable compassion, selflessness and humanity could merit your hand in marriage. So it _does_ appear that no one _else_ is particularly worthy of you either."

When he lifted his eyes to meet hers, they enlarged as he spoke and he felt as if he were falling into their gold-flecked depths.

He licked his lips, contemplating his next words…words he knew she needed to hear, in as much as he needed to say them.

"I have a long list of shortcomings…as you well know." The corners of his mouth raised in a small smile. "Most of which I cannot imagine would disappear overnight…or in…the next couple of years, in fact," he admitted while exhaling loudly. "Nevertheless …"

Molly's breathing hitched and her heart increased its beat at the detective's now penetrating stare.

_"I…do_ have something of particular importance in my favor, however," he breathed as he tightened his grip, drawing her ever closer, so that their noses touched each other.

"I am…"

Sherlock could feel the heightened pulse in his neck hammering against Molly's fingers.

"…Entirely and unreservedly…in love with you."

With that, his mouth took eager possession of hers and Molly began to tremble in his arms from the passion in his kiss. She recovered quickly by deepening the kiss with equal fervor, which almost sent them both crashing to the floor.

"Okay?" Molly whispered in between kisses.

"Mm…wonderful." He smiled against her mouth as he dove in again, making her sigh in contentment.

Regaining some of their balance by settling on their knees, the two seemed totally oblivious to anything outside of their arms.

"I…didn't…actually ask you, did I?" he said, amid a rather gratifying nibble on his pathologist's neck. He realized, albeit rather nebulously, that he still had some unfinished business as he gripped the ring behind her back.

"Mm…? Oh…" she mumbled before another kiss. "No…I guess not," she replied, totally undisturbed at the thought, which flitted away by the next kiss.

"Molly Hooper…" he muttered as she trailed breathy kisses along his neck.

"Mm?" she returned with shut eyes, nuzzling her nose behind his ear.

"Will you…be my wife?"

Molly stilled a bit as he removed the ring to place it in her hands. When she focused on his face once more she took in his blown pupils, delightfully swollen mouth and the completely wild mop of hair and smiled in satisfaction. Her vision blurred a bit with tears as she helped him slip the diamond on her finger. "Yes…you ridiculous man. I'll be your wife," she whispered into his mouth before kissing him so enthusiastically they hit the wall of the crow's nest behind him.

Paying no mind, they continued unrelentingly…until…they heard the indicative sound of a cocking gun; to which they froze in each other's arms.

"Unless you want your head blown to kingdom come, I'd suggest you disembark…now, please," said a clear voice in a considerably calm and refined manner.

Sherlock's momentary look of panic gave way to one of relief, as he squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against Molly's.

"I don't think that will be necessary, dad," Sherlock resounded in his strong baritone.

There was a short pause before his father also responded with relief and some measured displeasure in his tone. "For God's sake, Will, can't you pick up the bloody phone and let us know you're coming?"

Sherlock rose to his feet and looked down at his father with raised brows. "I did, actually… I informed your security detail that I'd be in the area…with…someone."

Siger Holmes peered up at his suddenly uncomfortable second born son and arched an eyebrow as he discharged the loaded round in his rifle. "Someone is up there with you?" He asked, slightly dubious. "In that tight spot?"

A second later the older Holmes' eyes widened as Molly Hooper's head slowly emerged; his brief surprise was quickly replaced with a rather amused half-grin, causing Molly's cheeks to flush.

"Hello," she said timidly, accompanied by a little wave and a cautious smile.

"Hello to _you,"_ he countered with a slight bow of his head and a twinkle in his eye.

"This is Mol…"

"Molly Hooper, the pathologist. Of course, she is. I'm not senile yet, my boy…despite what you and your brother may think. I believe I would know Miss Hooper anywhere," he said with affection in his voice. "We've never actually met, have we? Bring her down here, would you? And introduce us properly."

The detective gave a small nod and to her surprise did as he was told, helping her down the 'mast' and then down to terra-firma where Sherlock's father was waiting.

Molly's shyness grew ten-fold as she stepped up to the older man who was also much taller than she and had his hand extended in an outward display of friendliness that she hadn't quite expected.

"It's nice to finally meet you, my dear. My sons have been remiss in not bringing you to us earlier… especially with all that has happened."

"Lovely to meet you too, Mr. Holmes." She took his hand and shook it soundly, smiling up into the pleasant features of a much older Sherlock. In spite of the obvious difference in eye-color, his younger son shared almost everything else, including the gentle smile that reflected in his eyes when he looked at her.

"Um, Molly, I think my father may need his hand back at some point soon," Sherlock teased, causing her to withdraw her own hand self-consciously.

"Sorry, I…"

"No need for apologizes, Miss Hooper," Siger Holmes said giving his son a mildly disapproving look.

"Please…call me Molly," she said with open delight in her voice.

"Only if you call me Siger," he replied kindly, inspiring Sherlock to roll his eyes impatiently and punch his hands into his pockets.

"Yes, yes, now that all the social niceties have been dispensed with and we're on a first name basis, could we move on, please?" the detective mumbled, obviously feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"Best you mind your manners, William, before Molly here meets your mother…unless of course you're missing a good ear-boxing. We'll need to get back before she calls Mycroft in a panic. She was the one who heard you two. You know nothing gets past that woman; come along."

While they made their way to the house, Molly grinned at the obvious affection Siger Holmes shown as he talked about his wife. And before she knew it they were walking up to a stunned but relieved Mrs. Holmes as she had been waiting in the doorway for her husband's return.

"William, what in heaven's name are you playing at?" She stood with her hands on her hips with a particularly stern expression on her face.

And as they came closer Molly noticed Sherlock's amazing eyes, but on the face of Violet Holmes…not _only_ did they possess the same striking coloration but also their ability to size you up in a glance. She watched as the older woman's countenance shifted from indignation, to disbelief and then finally to a kind of tempered delight which presented itself in the form of a knowing twinkle.

Before Sherlock could respond to her question she managed to answer for him.

"So…snogging in the treehouse were you? I don't think I would have believed it unless I'd seen it with…" Mrs. Holmes stopped in sudden shock and the hands that were once on her hips moments before had flown to cover her mouth.

Molly stopped walking and instinctively reflected her alarm, although she didn't understand its source until Molly followed the woman's arrested gaze to the ring on her finger.

She and the two other men jerked in surprise, when Mrs. Holmes gave a sudden shriek, pointing at the pathologist's hand which moved over Molly's giggling mouth. Her giggles turned to laughter as Violet pulled the younger woman unceremoniously into the house.

"Oh, for God's sake, mother, please try to control yourself. We don't want to give Doctor Hooper the impression that she's marrying into a line of blithering ninnies, do we?" A comment which earned the consulting detective a strong smack on the arm as his mother walked past him.

As the four of them moved into the sitting room, Molly unconsciously rolled her lips between her teeth in an attempt to contain her bubbling joy as she looked at the bickering pair and the serenely amused older man in front of her. Her eyes fill with tears for a second time that day when she realized she had gained the love of her life and a new family, all in the span of an hour.

Meanwhile back in London, the echoes of the same bickering could be overheard in the formal offices of Mycroft Holmes. Although far from acting the part of a blithering ninny, the older brother could be seen seated in his overstuffed leather chair, sporting a reserved grin and if one really tried, one _could_ perchance even hear a low chuckle or two; not that he would ever admit to it, of course.

The End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Mychakk: for your gentle persuasions regarding a scene with Sherlock's parents...hope this final chapter made you smile!
> 
> To Succi: Hope you enjoyed the pirate-ship-tree-house! ;)
> 
> To ALL of my faithful reviewers(including all the guests): Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts after almost every chapter! It truly inspired so much of these 40+ chapters and made this foray into the world of fan fiction so much fun! If I dare to contribute any more stories, it will be because of you guys! xoxox
> 
> To Writingwife83: My gratitude for your encouragement and fabulous beta work is (by this time) no surprise to anyone. Nevertheless I did want to express one last time how funny, kind, and just an all-round sweety pie you've been. If it hadn't been for your support when I sent you those first chapters, I would never have had the courage to post them. THANK YOU SO MUCH!


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